


Who By Fire

by writinwaters (Anithene)



Category: Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anithene/pseuds/writinwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> He took her away without warning or reprieve, placing her in his castle like a pretty, caged bird with clipped wings. AU exploring the idea of Zelda being captured, too late for Link to save her - of Zelda, facing Ghirahim herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison

 

“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” – Unknown

* * *

 

_They sit upon one of the many islands surrounding Skyloft, in the middle of a breezy, warm afternoon. Zelda watches her Loftwing sway and dart across the sky, followed soon after by a streak of brilliant red, Link’s bird trailing behind._

_A crown of flowers rests atop her head, their color bringing warmth to her skin. Her golden hair has been let free, falling softly and brilliantly down her back. She watches the birds glide across the sky, smiling._

_Link is too busy admiring her to observe the birds, nor pay heed to whatever she points to._

_“Don’t you think that one looks like a Rimlet, Link? See the ears, the fluffy tail?”_

_Link draws his eyes away long enough to observe it. He nods._

_Zelda hits his arm, frowning. “You didn’t even look at it! It was so cute, too.”_

_The boy grins, as if being reprimanded by a withered old lady. Zelda turns away to gaze at the clouds once more, unsatisfied. Link stares at the color of her golden hair in the sunlight._

_Their Loftwings call in the distance. The wind sings in his ears._

_“Link?”_

_He looks to her, his longtime friend and confidant, sitting so near he can see every fleck of color in her rainwater eyes. They gaze at him in a solemn, serious way he’s unused to._

_“Zelda?” He says, quietly._

_Her lips part to speak, forming words he cannot hear. The wind sweeps them away._

Link wakes up. He looks for Zelda, wanting to ask what she had said, but he’s greeted by a silent night sky. He lies beneath a tree in the Deep Woods, a pile of long-cold ashes nearby. The foreign air burns his lungs with each breath.

He’s not in Skyloft, surrounded by clouds and endless blue. Looming over him are old trees twisted with time. The soil beneath his hands feels solid, _confined,_ caged to the big, wide earth called The Surface.

Link closes his eyes, lowering his sandy blond head.

She comes to him then, glowing with magic, a fey blue light. Fi hovers beside him, feet barely touching the grass, unmoving blue face near his own.

“Master Link,” she says, her voice not quite there, “It will be dawn in approximately three hours and forty-five minutes. It’s imperative you get a minimum of eight hours’ rest . Zelda is counting on you, Master Link.”

His entire body is heavy, but Link finds the strength to nod. He looks into her peerless eyes. Fi tilts her head.

“Will I have that dream again?”

She’s silent. For all her kindness, Link knows Fi isn’t human, but she’s something, at least, to keep him company.

“I do not have adequate information to answer your question. My apologies, Master Link. However, I wish you….pleasant dreams, nonetheless. Please rest now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

She disappears back into the sword at his side.

He’s alone, again.

 

* * *

 

There’s a feeling that this isn’t right, that things aren’t happening like they should, but Zelda does not know why.

The memories are like butterfly-smoke, whispering against the back of her eyelids. They fade in and out of focus at random. She can see familiar faces, others she doesn’t recognize. They smear together like a botched oil painting on the canvas of her mind.

Zelda thinks she’s going insane.

 _I’m not supposed to be here, not now_ , she thinks, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, bare floor cold against her naked skin. She’s wet and dripping from a bath, but has no desire to dress. The room she lies in is decorated with only a grand bed and  vanity.

Something tells her that she’s meant to be somewhere, some _time_ different, but doesn’t know why, or even how.

_Does it matter?_

She closes her eyes and breathes in. An image comes to life, a barren place of sand, and a great, looming sculpture of three triangles. These triangles have some important, mysterious meaning. She knows it, because it feels familiar, like she’d been there before in a past life.

If these aren’t the images she sees, her dreams are full of nightmares.

Each night, she relives being captured, over and over again. She had been dragged deep within the dredges of the Earth Temple by monsters, and chained there, the smoke filling her lungs. The old woman had warned her of this, of a man named Ghirahim taking her away, but for what purpose she was unaware.

He took her away without warning or reprieve, placing her in his castle like a pretty, caged bird with clipped wings. Zelda counts the days in misery and anxiety; she’s been here for two weeks.

She has to relive seeing his face again each night, and when she wakes, Zelda finds Ghirahim has followed her out of her nightmares.

Zelda folds herself into the smallest ball she can, teeth digging into the skin of her knees.

The sunlight shining through her window forms prison-bar shadows across her body.

 

* * *

 

Although Zelda is imprisoned, she’s been given freedom to roam the halls of this giant, empty castle.

Not even his pig-like minions preside in this palace, full of rich fabrics and fine furniture. Each room she enters is lavish, fit for any king. Flames erupt in fireplaces without aid, nor wood to fuel them. Though it’s the middle of summer, Zelda shivers in her gown, alone in these great, wide halls of stone.

“What’s the purpose of such a huge castle, with no one to fill it?”

Her voice echoes.

Zelda stops before a window, sunlight a weak, gray streak across the floor. Spring clouds amass overhead, strange blues and purples stirring within their depths. The first droplets of rain pepper the glass before her. Her blue eyes follow one solitary drop as it descends down, farther still, before being swallowed up by more rain.

When she reaches out to touch her fingertips to the glass, it warps, bending around her hand, as if made from something flexible and soft. No matter how far she outstretches her hand, the glass does not break.

“What strange sorcery,” she mutters, letting her hand drop.

She wraps her arms around herself, sinking to the floor, forehead resting against the stone wall. She thinks of her Loftwing, the smell of grass and spring air. Clouds. Her favorite book, the lullaby her father sang to her as an infant.

She thinks of these things to fill the void of this castle without a single living thing inside it.

 

* * *

_No matter how many times she asks, the old woman will not reveal her name._

_Zelda sits in the grass, peering up through cracks in the ceiling. This temple is old, withered like the woman who guards it, with a strange smile and frail little hands. She is nameless, so Zelda calls her grandmother._

_The old woman stands before her, all but a few feet high. Her back is hunched, and what little of her face visible beneath her pointed, crimson hood is wrinkled with age._

_“Zelda, I must tell you once more: Avoid capture at any and all costs. Everything, past and future, will be lost if you are.”_

_Zelda nods, long golden hair falling over her shoulder. She pulls at the flowing sleeves of her gown, as if she’s done it many times before, though she’s never worn it until today. The blueness of it reminds her of an early spring morning.  It’s familiar in an old, mysterious way, the smell of it, the cut and color._

_It feels like a mantle weighing her down._

_She stands, breathing in the mossy air. Zelda makes her smile as cheery as she can, and follows the old woman to the great stone doors. They creak and rattle when pushed open, sunlight washing into the ruins of the old, withered temple._

_Zelda has never seen grass so green, or flowers so fresh and colorful. Faron Woods looms up before her._

_The old woman takes her hand, skinny fingers curling around the palm. Her voice is very, very soft._

_“Don’t be fooled, girl. This path is a dark and twisted one. Go to the temple to purify yourself. You have my prayers, and my thoughts. May the Goddess watch over you.”_

* * *

 

“Eat, girl. My patience for this ordeal is quickly fading.”

Ghirahim sits, rather, drapes himself in the chair across from her, platters and bowls of food spread out in a dizzying arrangement before them.  The table is at least three times her height, and wide enough, if she wished, to lay upon. They sit in a room so large Zelda has to tilt her head back to see the ceiling, and one, singular bay window lets moonlight flood in.

Though she’s starved enough to eat every morsel, Zelda touches not a single thing.

His white lips curl into a snarl, a triangle of pointed teeth leering at her from beneath his lips. The color of his hair mimics the moon outside, one side cut in a harsh, blunt line across his jaw. The other side is cut shorter, fine strands pushed behind his one pointed ear. A blue earring dangles entrancingly from it. She dares not ask why his other ear doesn’t match, hidden in his hair.

Ghirahim speaks to her as if addressing a very slow, dull-witted child.

 “Starving yourself will not save him. As is, the boy is in no danger, at least not by my hands. It appears he’s managed to kill my pet, Scaldera. What an annoying little rat he is.”

Zelda smiles inside, where he can’t see it.

Ghirahim drums his fingers against the table. She watches the movement as to avoid his eyes, night-dark orbs outlined in deep purple, like terrible holes in his head.

Then he’s right behind her, faster than she can breathe, hands curling around her shoulders. His grip is like iron and just as cold. His breath stirs fine hairs against her nape.

“Eat. Now. Would you rather me tie you up and spoon feed you? I will, if it means you get something down that nasty, human mouth.  I won’t have you becoming sick, not at all. You’re more useful to me healthy.”

Zelda reaches up to shove his hands away, but he’s back at the other end of the table before she can. He laughs, though there’s no mirth in it.

“Why don’t you eat, Ghirahim?”

He scowls at her as if she’s insulted him. “I can, but I don’t need to. What an unfortunate quality of you humans, the need to eat. It’s a nasty habit, really. How dare you even ask.”

Zelda breathes in the scent of cooked meats and fine pastries, foods she’s never seen nor tasted, exotic and colorful. Her stomach clenches, growling. He looks at her expectantly, grinning wide. Her fingers shaking, Zelda plucks a slice of meat from a nearby platter, shoving it into her mouth and swallowing.

 “Your manners are terrible, but given the circumstances, I suppose I can forgive them,” Ghirahim says with disgust, eyeing her up and down.

Zelda pretends he isn’t there, that she’s here alone with this feast, piling more food onto her plate. Not wondering what it is, or how it will taste, because she’s too hungry to care. He watches her finish plate after plate in silence.

When it feels as though she’ll burst, Zelda pushes the last plate away with a sigh. Ghirahim practically bounces in his chair.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? I pity you, just a little, living in the sky with a select number of foods to eat. Here, you can have whatever you wish. You need simply ask, my darling little bird.”

He tries to sound sincere, yet Zelda can hear the falseness in his voice. She glares.

Ghirahim smiles a wide, lazy grin, eyes crinkling up. She wonders briefly why his skin is so pale; it’s the color of wet marble, and then she remembers he’s not human, not human at all. Ghirahim is the direct foil of Link, in manner and appearance. This realization fills her with deep, empty longing.

Her eyes follow the movement of his hands as he folds them before his face. His eyes peer at her from the pointed tips his fingers make.

“You’re thinking of him, hm? That soft little boy in green. You should feel very special, to be loved so much for someone as shy and incompetent as him to search for you. This is unfamiliar land to him, and every inch is covered in claws, ready to tear him to shreds. He will not find mercy here.”

Zelda sets her jaw, makes herself as tall as possible in the chair.

“Why didn’t you kill him when you first met? If he is so incompetent and soft, why let him live?”

His face falls.

The room darkens, shadows throwing themselves upon the walls, writhing. Zelda looks upon them in horror, because walls aren’t supposed to move, not like that, but they do, here, in this place without law.

Sweat begins to gather on her upper lip. She licks the saltiness away, turning her eyes toward Ghirahim, now standing, tense and terrible, pale white mouth snarling. He disappears into nothingness, but his voice drags across the walls.

 “You have quite the mouth, skychild. Be sure to keep it in check tomorrow evening, or I may decide not to feed you at all. You think of that soft little boy a while longer for me. He’s all you have.”

She’s alone, again.


	2. Courage

“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.” - Mark Twain

* * *

 

She had tried to escape, once.

Three days after her capture, she waited until he was gone. She was weak and dizzy, but everything in  
her said _move, run, escape, anywhere._ This thought possessed every movement Zelda made. This was wrong, all of it, and it didn't matter why, it only mattered that she escape.

She soon discovered the impossibility of it.

The hallways would go on forever. The doors would open only to other rooms, endless  
rooms, so many she lost count. There were no stairwells. The windows would not break. No matter how far she ran, or how many doors she opened, she was only met with failure.

Now, Zelda looks out the window of her bedroom, the only place where she can escape anything in this castle without entry or exit. Her hands are shoved beneath her armpits, fingertips grazing the sharp edges of her shoulder blades.

She wishes she had wings, but doubts even flight will aid her.

 

* * *

 

_"You're certainly not what I anticipated."  
  
Zelda sits and trembles, despite the ungodly heat she's surrounded in.  
  
She doesn't know what to call him, this man-hybrid kneeling before her, with skin like storm clouds and a smile full of fangs.  
  
And, blankly, she wonders how he can stand this heat, swathed in a heavy crimson mantle.  
  
He stares at her, as if expecting a rebuttal to his thinly-veiled insult.  
  
Zelda has found her voice has fled.  
  
He tips his head at a strange angle to better observe her. She wants to call what curls his sallow lips a grin, yet it isn't, not one she's ever seen. This man – this thing, she can't call him a man – kneels gracefully, balancing on his toes without effort, like a child studying an insect.  
  
Her heart thunder-claps beneath her breastbone, so hard it clangs all through her body. She wants to fight, but knows the uselessness of it._ _He moves toward her, and she twists away, wincing as the chain around her ankle chafes against her skin._  
  
 _His grin wavers. There is nothing in his eyes when he speaks. "Oh, my, it seems they injured you in bringing you here. How clumsy of them. I sometimes forget how easy you humans bleed, you must forgive me."_  
  
 _He's reaching toward her, and every pale inch of her shudders in repulsion, as he swipes one gloved fingertip along her bloodied ankle. He smears it between his fingers, as if testing the texture of some fine drink against his tongue. What fills his long, colorless face has only been seen in her nightmares._  
  
 _Zelda's eyes follow him as he stands, lifting one hand towards her, glowing with some unnameable power. She curls into herself and hopes whatever death he has planned will be quick._  
  
 _The chains around her are shattered. She's free._  
  
 _And in the same moment, a prisoner once more._  
  
 _She wants to vomit as he grips her arm, pulling her up with him, legs barely able to carry her own weight. He leans his head close to her own, and Zelda realizes, with horror, that his breath is like hoarfrost, with less warmth than winter._  
  
 _"This is how it's going to be," he declares, "you will come with me, and you'll be a very good human for me, understand? No kicking or screaming. No begging, though I imagine you'd be so very pretty if you did. No resistance. No trouble. Am I clear?"_

_Her tongue cleaves to the roof of her mouth. She nods._   
  
_He doesn't smile, only lifts one hand to snap his fingers._   
  
_Then, she's standing in a blank white room, and he is gone._

* * *

 

Link winces as his blade cleaves through the skull of a Bokoblin, a wide arc of blood spraying everywhere.

The pig-creature reels back, collapsing, before disappearing into a miasma of violet smoke. This strange act of dying (could it be called death, he wonders?) no longer surprises him as it did at the beginning, after the first one he'd killed did the same.

It doesn't surprise him that they all vanish into whatever plane they do after he kills them, because he's killed dozens of them by now.

It doesn't surprise him, because this place called The Surface is unlike anything he could have ever dreamed up, not even in a nightmare.

He wipes the blade on a cloth retrieved from the pouch at his waist, before sheathing his sword once more. He can feel Fi's aura beat reassuringly against the graze of his fingers as he lets go of the hilt.

He's too weary even to smile, lips peeled of their moisture, red and aching.

This place – what does Fi call it – this _desert,_ this place full of sand and dry, brittle heat that sucks the air from his lungs is bigger than anything he's seen. Not as big as the sky, but very close. It seems for every two steps he takes, there are five more ahead of him.

There is sand in places of his body Link doesn't want to think about.

The sunlight is getting thinner, night will swoop down upon him soon, and what Link would give to be in his own bed, in his own home, with the comfort of knowing all is right in the world. What he would give to go back to the Link stuck in Skyloft, spending his days in laziness and reverie.

He knows he can't go back, wouldn't go back even if he could, because Zelda is in danger, and he would give anything, and even more, to keep her from it.

Her memory is the only thing that comforts him now, when he can't sleep because his dreams are full of slathering monsters or crazy, half-mad Demon Lords after his head.

Link squints into the distance, one hand pushed beneath his bangs to shade his eyes, gazing at the massive sculpture of some ancient relic from ages past. He knows that symbol, knows it like it's part of his being. It draws him in, with the copper-gold sunlight shining behind it, as if imbuing it with some ancient godly power.

The sun will be gone soon, Link knows, so he finds a secluded crag in a rocky wall to hide in, to hope that, tonight, he'll dream of _her._

 

* * *

 

How amusing this boy is.

Ghirahim watches from a high cliff overlooking the desert valley, too far for human eyes to see. He watches this boy, this _child,_ even, brave the desert thousands of other humans had perished in long before the boy's time.

Ghirahim folds his arms across his chest, pushing his weight to one leg, unflinching as a mighty gust of gritty wind bellows against his back, sweeping his cloak with it. He takes his eyes away from the boy to glance at the temple many steps before him, impatience and longing burning up within him. There's no point in going to the temple now, as The Gate of Time there isn't activated, not yet. As powerful as Ghirahim is, he knows only those blessed by the Goddess can activate the Gate.

His eyes turn back to Link, a tiny, infinitesimal spot on the ground, no bigger than a bug beneath his foot. The boy vanquishes another one of his monsters, blade flashing (that beautiful, beautiful blade, one he doesn't deserve to wield) as he rives it through the creature's head.

Ghirahim smiles.

"You're getting used to killing now, aren't you, Skychild?"

Closing his eyes, he brushes a few fingers against his pointed chin, contemplative, other arm tucked against his chest. He speaks to the boy, though he can't hear it down below.

"How amusing, to think that you are, unwittingly, aiding me in my own quest. How amusing indeed. If only you knew, boy, that I have what you're looking for. That would light a fire in you, I'm certain. Keep killing. That softness doesn't suit you."

He stays a moment longer, then disappears.

 

* * *

 

The smell is terrible.

Impa scrubs her fingernails into her arms, kneeling on the floor of the Sealed Grounds, having passed through the Gate of Time and into ages past.

The smell of darkness lingers on her like some mephitic smoke, burning behind her eyeballs and stinging her throat. She's never known darkness this thick, this _tangible,_ not in all her years of guarding the Sealed Grounds, waiting for the Goddess' return.

That boy, and more importantly, _herself_ , had been too slow to rescue Zelda after her capture in the Earth Temple.

Impa cracks her knuckles against the stones beneath her, ignoring the pain, even as she feels the fine bones in her hands splinter with the impact.

"Perhaps Her Grace was wrong in appointing me this task," she says, seething with shame. Her long, lean body trembles with it, a self-loathing she's never felt, loathing she knows is deserved. Guiding the Goddess Reborn was her only task, and she has failed.

A Sheikah is not used to failure.

They – Her Grace, and the Demon Lord – had vanished only seconds before Impa's arrival, but those few seconds were time enough. She knew it was _him_ from the smell, the inky miasma of darkness he was so heavily lathed in, which clung to the air after his departure.

There was no using staying in the present, so she fled, so much like a coward, back to the Temple of Time and through the Gate, knowing the risks of activating it when _he_ still had Her Grace. Even a mighty Sheikah knows when to retreat.

Impa lifts her golden head to the sunlight glistening in, warming her face and the bareness of her shoulders. Her thin, sculpted lips part to take in a long, shivery breath of that sunlight, the citrus-bubble of holy power.

"Oh, Goddess," she pleads, "what will I tell the boy?"


	3. Luck

“Good luck has its storms. “ - George Lucas.

* * *

 

The pot shatters against the wall, shards of it scattering across the floor.

Groose huffs, staring at the broken pottery at his feet, face flushed.

Gritting his teeth, he turns to his punching bag. A drawing of Link is secured to it, smiling goofily at him. Groose pulls his hand into a tight fist. Yelling, he punches the bag until his knuckles ache.  
  
The bag swings helplessly. The drawing is still smiling.  
With a mighty grunt, Groose sends his fist into the punching bag, then again, and again, until his arms are burning and his head aches with exertion. He could punch holes through every wall in Skyloft and not be satiated.

Panting, he plops heavily onto his bed, glaring at the still swinging punching bag.

“I hate this,” he grouses, slamming his fists onto his thighs, “I can't stand the thought of poor Zelda, all alone down there, while we're up here relying on that wimp to save her.”

He props his chin up in one broad palm, mouth drawn in a tight line. He thinks of her pretty smile and long golden hair, the way she laughs in the sunlight. He doesn't understand what she sees in someone like _Link,_ lazy, scrawny Link, when he, Groose, can do so much more for her.

Groose sighs dejectedly.

His eyes wander to the framed Loftwing feather hung on his wall, one Zelda's own bird had shed shortly before her disappearance. The blue reminds him of her eyes.

Groose stares at it, brows furrowing with concentration.

“That's it!” He bellows, springing to his feet. Smiling, he takes the frame down, gently prying the feather out to hold it before his face.

He tucks it into his tunic, and exits the room.

* * *

 

There it is again, that feeling like spiders squirming up her back.

The old woman shivers, hands clasped tightly in her lap, splintered with varicose veins and purple-brown liver spots. Her bones ache from sitting for so long, joints wanting to stretch, to move, do anything but lie still.

She purses her thin little mouth, deepening the wrinkles gouged into her skin from time.

Dark magic sizzles in the air, like a pot of oil on a fire, crackling in her eardrums. Although she rests in the Sealed Grounds, far away from where the boy is now, she can't mistake it, this aluminum twang of evil. It's been following him for a while now, stealing behind his footsteps.

She makes a noise of worry, gripping her hands so tightly the knotted knuckles turn pale.

There it is again, the feeling like spiders squirming up her back.

It's _different_. It's not the stink of darkness or the taste of evil, but something else, stuck somewhere between the lines. It's the feeling of wrongness, she decides, as if something that was supposed to happen didn't, and everything is out of focus now, time taking a wayward path.

With great difficulty, she rises from the stone floor, cold against her bare feet. Even the floor feels different to her, although she's memorized every crack, counted each stone in her many years guarding this place.

She stands before the main doors, both palms pressed flat against them, not to open, but to feel.

In her mind's eye, she reaches through the forests, the caves, the mountains, past rivers and ponds, swirling green and blue. She treks the entire desert without stepping a foot outside, over the swirling dunes, down through the ancient mines.

 _There_ he is, groping blindly through a tunnel, weary but well. The sword spirit slips along ahead of him, guiding him through the tunnel dug deep beneath the ground.

He looks up, like an animal caught in the bush, looking over one shoulder, as if sensing her watching him. The old woman grins a little, before traveling onward, past the boy, deeper still. She breathes in and hurdles her consciousness farther ahead, past the mines and to the Gate of Time just beyond.

Something horrible blooms in her heart. There's a high-pitched kneeing sound, like metal on a grist,     vibrating into her skull. The spell is broken, and her mind slams back into its rightful place.

Her fingertips scrape against the stone as her hands fall.

She breathes in a long and shallow gasp.

* * *

 

He's bleeding.

Link has been doing a lot of that lately; he's bled more in the past few weeks than any other time in his life. It sticks to his hair and tunic, dribbling down from a cut above his eye, a few wayward drops sprinkling his cheek.

He sits inside the mines, alone. He's defeated the great scorpion, but barely, just enough to escape still living. Link knows there's no time for rest, no matter how worn he is.

His whole body aches, an all over throb nesting in his joints, but Link thinks himself fortunate, more than fortunate, to have survived this long.

_Is it luck, or is it skill?_

Link considers this.

_Neither?_

He sighs.

The Goddess would surely laugh at his foolishness, if she weren't doing so already. Link doesn't doubt she is; he laughs with her.

 _“Who are you, mortal,”_ he imagines her saying, “ _to take on such a task?”_ And her laughter is like thunderclouds, horrible in its beauty.

Link shudders. For all her mercy in saving them, for all her holiness, Hylia was a Goddess, a deity not of their world, though she walked in it for a time. He thanks the stars that he was not alive when she existed on their earth.

Fi would scold him for such blasphemous thoughts.

He reaches up to graze his fingers against the hilt of his sword, and finds, with relief, that her spirit is still within.

“Fi?”

She appears, rather, leaps from the sword at his back to float before him. He's still not used to her, the way she springs from nothingness and exhales air from another world, glowing with magic. Magic so old he can smell it, feel it buzz along his skin, bleeding through the cracks of his eyelids.

Magic _he_ wields, magic _he_ commands. The thought disturbs him.

“You said the Temple of Time was just beyond here.”

She nods.

“Lead me to it.”

Her clothing ruffles, just a little, as if she's somehow offended by his lack of manners. If she is, she displays none of it.

“Yes, Master Link. Follow me.”

* * *

 

Impa waits.

She sits, straight-backed and solid, with the Gate of Time whirling behind her. It osculates with every turn, nephrite runes glowing within it.  Behind it, the sun hangs low, cautiously, burning yellow and orange. The desert beyond the Temple of Time is frightfully quiet.

She knows the risk of waiting here when _that man_ roams free, yet it hardly matters, not as much as telling the boy of Zelda's fate.

Impa would rather face anything in the cosmos than this.

She cares not for the boy, her only mission in life to protect the Goddess Reborn. She fears how well he'll handle the news – he's the Hero chosen by Hylia herself, but he is still human, still a boy. A vulnerable boy, unbreakable though he is. A boy in love.

Impa huffs a little, more a grunt than a laugh.

As if the gods themselves were reading her thoughts, he appears beyond, standing across the fissure and gazing, startled and a little wary, over at her.

She's up and motioning him to come near, to her relief (and despair) he does so without thought.

 _How trustful this boy is,_ she thinks in dismay, _how soft. She should have chosen better._

Up close, he's at least two or three heads shorter than herself, but it's an unfair comparison, because he's yet fully grown and her people are unusually tall. Up close, his eyes are bluer than anything in the world, and fiercer than his appearance initially let on.

Up close, he reeks of holy magic, so green as to be flooded neon, and she can barely see him within it. A Sheikah's gift, the ability to see, taste and smell magic, has never been so damning as now.

He knows something is wrong.

She lifts one hand as if to place it upon his shoulder, hesitates, before letting it drop back down. He looks at her expectantly.

She closes her eyes so as not to look at him.

“Boy, we haven't much time to dawdle here, you most especially not – I won't spare pleasantries. Zelda is gone. I don't know where she is, and I have no other information for you, other than she's been taken by _that_ man. There's no one else.”

Impa turns to regard the Gate of Time, glowing now that the sun is setting. She waits tensely for his response.

His voice is soft, and more melodious than any mortal voice has a right to be, when he says, “What can I do?”

She's unsurprised by this willingness of him, unable to decide if he's very stupid, or very selfless, so she settles on a little of both. She wants to laugh, but can't.

Impa gazes at him from over one shoulder, her eyes red like firewater.

“I wish to the gods that you didn't have to hear this, Link, not from me, nor from anyone, but as a servant, I must obey orders. My task was to guide Zelda throughout the realm to help complete her own destiny. I was, under oath, to never allow her to stray from it, or to allow her capture by those who seek to do her harm.”

Link nods, hands fisting at his sides.

Impa smirks, sadly. “You have a right to be angry with me. I would be worried if you weren't. I ask that you put it away for now, and use that anger to better aid her.”

He bows his head, looking less like a Hero and more like a boy, and Impa wishes he wouldn't, because that's not how a Hero should look.

“I have only one piece of assurance for you, Link.”

He looks up with so much hope he glows with it, and how much she wishes he didn't, because hope has never helped anyone.

Impa motions him closer to the Gate, she looking into it, he gazing at her, still and anxious. Then, she snaps her fingers, and with a _zzt_ of magic, materializes a beautiful golden lyre – Zelda's lyre. Impa passes it to him with reverence.

Link cradles it in his palms, the metal still warm with magic, as if gripping to hard or too carelessly will  sap its power. He cradles it because it was in Zelda's hands not so long ago.

“This is all I found of her at the Earth Temple. You  probably assumed she was gone because someone rescued her, am I right?”

Link secures the harp in his belt. “Yes. I had no reason to believe otherwise. Not even Fi thought she'd been captured.”

Something passes over her face, a little like remorse. “There's no time for my apologies, Link. Listen to me. That lyre is the very same the Goddess herself held, and it's imbued with properties that will aid you in your quest. I imagine Zelda left it for you herself.”

Her voice grows weaker.

Link steps forward, golden brows lowering, eyes glowing fierce again. The softness in his words is gone. “And? What aren't you telling me?”

Impa raises her head to the darkening sky, a star-struck giant above them.

“The Demon Lord wants to sacrifice her. I have no time to explain the details. This is the piece of assurance I can give you – I botched his magic, just a little, just enough to hinder him. It won't buy you much time. I'd say three months, at the very best.”

She turns her fiery gaze back to him, expecting a downtrodden little boy. Instead, he stands straight, with a determination in his young face that startles even her.

His lips part to speak, but it's strangled by the loudest noise she's ever heard. For a moment, the world blooms golden-white, earth and sky slamming into one another above her head.

Impa spins down into darkness.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't have time to think about what happened or why, only act.

Impa lurches to the side, just as a dagger hiss-whistles by and imbeds itself in the stone where her head was. She jumps to her feet and swears.

And knows what had happened.

And wishes she didn't.

It feels like there's a cluster of storm clouds in her head, rumbling with every movement, lightning burning up in her limbs. She has to ignore it.

_Because wishes and hopes don't get you very far, Sheikah._

Link and the Demon Lord himself are battling just steps away, on the bridge of stone across the fissure.

Impa breathes in all the way to her belly, arms held out, shimmering with blue electricity.

“Boy!”

He stops just long enough to look at her, then to wildly fling himself away as she hurls her magic forward, striking the demon square in the torso.

She doesn't have time to gloat.

 

* * *

 

Link winces as Ghirahim loosens a soul-churning _scream_ of fury.

His clothing smokes thin little streams of black, a charred patch of cloth and skin still glowing with Impa's magic. He presses one hand to his wounded chest, the other gripping his blade so tightly Link can see it quiver.

His eyes are two blazing stars of melanoid madness in the dark.

Link braces his legs, standing between the demon and Impa, sword and shield out. The blade still glows with a Skyward Strike he'd charged moments before.

Then Ghirahim is right up against him, blades ringing, glowing embers flying with the impact. Link feels his arms give out under the pressure, knees buckling just slightly, but it's enough for Ghirahim to take the chance and kick him in the gut.

Link stumbles back before righting himself, just in time to leap away from a decapitating swing, the ebony blade grazing the top of Link's head.

Ghirahim cackles, thrusting forward, catching the edge of Link's shield. He bashes it into Ghirahim's blade, knocking him off balance. Link flings the edge of his sword down, aiming for Ghirahim's neck – only to pass through empty space.

He's seen this before – without thought, he twists around and swings as hard as he can, blade aglow, firing a Skyward Strike straight into Ghirahim just as he appears behind him.

 _Now_ , his instincts cry.

His blade nearly sings in elation as it slices Ghirahim's shoulder, all the way down to his hip, a chaotic arc of blood and rendered flesh.

But it's not enough, it's never enough, and Ghirahim _smiles_ before cracking the butt of his sword into Link's face.

Stars blitz black and white and horrible red, a cacophony of color and confusion as Link stumbles back in pain. The taste of his own blood fills his mouth, choking him, spurting from his broken nose.

He can open his eyes just enough to see Ghirahim, still smiling, standing above him – _when did I fall?_ Link wonders, vacantly.

He doesn't even have time to think of it, before Ghirahim lands a solid kick straight into his belly. All at once the air leaves him, and Link tries to gasp in pain, curling up on instinct. Another blow slams between his shoulders, then another, until Link can't think right beyond the pain.

Then, he hears another scream, but it isn't his own.

Link drags himself onto his hands and knees, spitting blood, craning his head just enough to look beyond him. Ghirahim lies quite a bit before him, still glowing with Sheikah magic.

“Link,” Impa says, helping him up, “no time, you must destroy the Gate, that's what he's after.”

He spits more blood, “you?”

Impa smiles sadly. “I'll have to return to the past. I'll go into the Gate, and you must destroy it the instant I do so, understand?”

Link groans, fumbling to retrieve his sword, before tipping his head in weak agreement.

Impa wastes no time, sprinting toward the Gate.

It takes everything, and a little more, for him to raise the Goddess Blade high above his head, willing holy magic into it. Impa looks at him for a single, still moment, before entering the Gate and disappearing, dropping a globe of electricity behind her.

Link fires a Skyward Strike, and The Gate of Time is destroyed utterly, with only rubble remaining.

He wobbles on weak legs, but finds enough strength to turn as he senses Ghirahim rise behind him.

The demon's face is so full of rage he _bleeds_ it, pointed teeth rattling, nostrils flaring. He yells so loud Link can hear the thunder in his voice.

“I will make you regret that, child! I should have done away with you the moment I laid eyes on you – be careful where you tread now. _I'm_ the one with your precious friend, and I hold all the pieces. Don't think this is your victory!”

He laughs, blood wetting his entire front. He raises the point of his sword toward Link.

“Pray to that _filthy_ Goddess of yours that I still find use in her when that Sheikah's spell wears off. Count your blessings, boy. The next we meet, I'll be sure to make you wish you never breathed air!”

Link watches as Ghirahim circles himself with his own sword, and vanishes altogether.

He's alone, again.  
  



	4. Envy

“Spite is never lonely; envy always tags along.” - Mignon MgLaughin

* * *

 

_There is blood on her dress._

_It darkens the hem of it, staining the cloth a bright fuchsia-red. She stands before him cloaked in the blood of her own people, but she has never looked more radiant, nor more deadly. Her skin and hair glow with holy power, igniting the air between them. She is luminous, shining from within, the light punching through her eyes._

_This comes as no surprise to him, this radiance of hers, because she is a Goddess, and he a Demon._

_Her arms are tense, knuckles white where she grips the Master Sword. She stands before him, regal and tall and beautiful. The very breath she exhales lingers as fluorescent sparks before her lips. He watches them glitter, before being swept away by the wind._

_They stand in a field littered with the dead, the land blackened and wasted. He belongs here. She does not._

_He raises his blade toward her, and her eyes burn bloody-fierce before she hurls herself toward him._

_They battle once more._

* * *

 

 

The Goddess was beautiful and powerful, a brilliant light amongst the smoke-screen decay. Her voice shook the skies. She could bring legions of men to their knees, bend galaxies to her will. Shape them like playthings in her hands. Hylia was a Goddess straight from the empyrean cosmos itself.

She _burned._

Ghirahim now stands outside the doors to Zelda's room, the human Hylia has reduced herself to. He doubts even she realizes it, not fully, that she was once the very Goddess that saved her people from destruction. She is a wilted flower with the will to grow. A faintly gleaming star in the night. But Zelda is no Goddess.

Ghirahim smirks, laughs to himself, an unhurried chuckle. She's a little girl, really, when all is said and done. He finds it so hard to believe that such a small, pretty thing could house the soul of a celestial being. He could vaporize her into smoke and dust with the snap of two fingers.

Then, a voice from the other side of the door; “I know you're out there.”

She opens the door for him, just enough to peer up at him. It creates a neat slat of light on her face, straight up her mouth and lighting up her eyes. Her gaze is lined with dark circles, and her cheeks have been bled of their color. It reminds him of the pale, thinned-out hue of a sunset in winter. Her golden hair rests limply along her shoulders.

Ghirahim smiles and jerks the door wider, forcing her deeper within the room. She backs away from him, rigid, defiant, but not frightened. A part of him detests it.

He regards her bedroom with the air of someone admiring their handiwork.

The room is spacious and filled with rich fabrics, fine furniture, bursts of red, gold and silver. Her bed, large enough to fit three people without trouble, is adorned with hanging veils of lace, the thick blankets neatly made.

Ghirahim stops before the bare window. “I see you took down the drapes.”

She presses herself to the wall farthest away from him. “I wanted to see the sky.”

Ghirahim shrugs. “As expected. Feeling homesick, then?” His voice drips inky venom.

She purses her lips. He watches her do it, the soft pink flesh pressing together, and how much he wants to see those lips splashed in blood. He imagines it for a moment, her pale cheek dyed red, mouth parted slightly, beseechingly, those blue eyes losing their brightness.

 _Yes_ , he affirms; _how radiant she would look._

When he walks nearer, Ghirahim can _feel_ her pulse quicken. It fills him with a shivery thrill. Though he comes near enough to bend his head and kiss her – more a kiss of death than anything else – he stands, still and waiting.

Her hands tremble as she clutches her gown. The very same she had worn in battle, all those eons ago, soaked in crimson.

Slowly, with the patience and grace of any lover, Ghirahim brings the tips of his fingers beneath her chin, tipping her face up toward his own. They stare at each other in the twilight, their breath stirring together.

He wonders, for a flash of an instant, so brief as to be nothing – how it would feel to kiss her, smear her own blood on her cheek.

Ghirahim smiles instead, snakelike, words shuddering ice-pale and long. “I saw him just a while ago.”

Her gasp lights flames on his skin. There's finally life in her, eyes candle-soft and shining. “Where? What-” She stops, drops her golden head, shoulders coiling up.

Ghirahim rolls his eyes, sneering. “I didn't kill him. The little _slug_ managed to squirm away from me again. He actually wounded me. You may have a chance yet.” He cackles.

There's a sliver of the Goddess in her when she raises her head. It glimmers beneath the wind in her voice. “I have more of a chance than you imagine.”

His laughter is a shout. “Really? You have that much faith in him? He can barely hold that sword upright. Don't mistake the wound he gave me for skill. It was luck. See for yourself,” he steps away to gesture grandly down his front, grinning. “Not a mark lingers.”

She glares.

His grin vanishes. His hand lashes out to grasp her throat, thumb pressed flush against her pulse. Ghirahim leans his face so near their breath mingles, charged with equal parts _fury_ and _fear._

There's fury in the way his fingers clutch her throat, so softly as to be intimate, deadly enough to keep her eyes trained on his. Her reflection inside them is warped. Zelda breathes in, a fearful staccato of shivering air in her lungs. It feels like the whole world (or what she knows of it) is thrashing beneath her feet.

She's slammed against the wall, once, twice, each blow thumping hard and deep within her ribs.

His whisper is tightly-wound, ready to snap. “They destroyed the Gate of Time.”

Zelda's voice is blank. “I don't know what that is.”

The demon snarls, baring each pointed tooth, finally living flesh now that he's so close. “You lie.”

Her voice stumbles, “I'm not.”

Ghirahim's clutch intensifies, and ugly black dots whorl before her gaze, distorting his face before her. Zelda chokes, can't even yell or scream, because it seems the best thing to do despite its uselessness, even though he's the only one that will hear her do it.

Her attempts to claw his hand away seems to amuse him, and Ghirahim _laughs_ as if he enjoys her weak attempts of escape.

His breath swarms against her cheeks like fire-ants borrowing beneath her skin. She squirms away from him and the leer he presses into her ear.

“What is it, girl?” His lips are close enough – but not quite close, _not quite_ – that she could tilt her head and kiss him, run her mouth across those dry, pale lips, just to see how he tastes.

Zelda spits in his face instead.

Ghirahim screams like she's injured him, jerking away to angrily swipe the spittle away. He draws his hand back, slowly, fingertips glimmering, and he flings the mess away with a grunt. A few slips of silvery-white hair fall before the darkness of his eyes as he raises his head, looking to her.

Zelda pushes herself into the wall as hard as she can, arms drawn up, but her steady gaze is haughty, triumphant, the same way it was all those years ago when she was a Goddess. It's almost the same, just enough to remind him, just enough to capture him in it once more.

Ghirahim stills. A single beam of light twists its way through the clouds and into the room, illuminating her face and those horribly blue eyes, looking at him from inside the small girl trembling before him. It feels like he's gazing through time, stuck in that fire-wrought world of blood and war.

“I never understood what he saw in you,” he says, plainly, and Zelda can't name the emotion on his face, doesn't have time to. He turns, swiftly, before exiting the room and closing the door with a final, muted thud behind him.

Zelda sinks down to the floor, the sunlight diving her bedroom into two halves; she's cast in shadow.

Then, she looks up, able to name that one singular emotion, so foreign on a face built only for rage -

“Envy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What? I think it's a great name!”

Link feels a migraine beginning to form, just above the bridge of his nose. His head still aches from the fall, his landing less than comfortable with Groose clinging to him and screaming. He never thought someone so large could scream so shrilly.

He had returned to Skyloft for potions to heal his broken nose and blackened eyes, only to return to The Surface once more – but with an unwarranted and unwanted surprise.

If Groose was still amazed at The Surface before, he shows no tracery of it. He's as loud and obnoxious and Link remembers him being in Skyloft.

His eyes follow a small bluebird as it perches on Groose's shoulder, without care or concern. Groose yelps and swats it away, as if the tiny animal could somehow do him harm by sitting there. Link turns away to hide his satisfied grin.

Groose bellows after, “why aren't you listening, squirt? 'Grooseland' is a wonderful name for this place. Don't deny it!”

Link pointedly ignores him, hiking his tunic farther up in preparation for climbing, wrapping one hand and foot into the vines scaling the wall just outside the Sealed Grounds. The Surface is unchanged, the woods especially so, as if it doesn't care of his troubles or worries, or that everything has gone horribly wrong.

There is _one_ thing, however. It's the air – Link breathes it in again – the air is different. It's almost noxious, and if darkness had a smell, this would be it. Piceous and heavy, the stink of hot oil about to boil over.

Link shudders, heaving himself up the wall, Groose following after.

Groose is unperturbed, and this calmness of his makes Link irritated, envious, even, that he can be so unworried, so confidant that all will be right in the world if only by Zelda's return.

Link no longer has the luxury of calm, the very notion of being _unworried_ more foreign than anything in this place. Worry stoops on his shoulder, a constant and unwanted companion, curled lecherously around his throat.

He stops just before the doors to the Sealed Grounds, ( _even this feels different,_ he thinks, suddenly), stealing a moment before he must enter and tell the old woman of his failure. The word is an awful one, stinging deep within. He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

Link croaks, “you go ahead. I'll be there soon.”

Groose grins, thundering past him and into the Sealed Grounds.

Link stays behind.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn't particularly alarm him that she knows.

He _had_ sensed her watching him, back in the dark, deep mines. Link had long since dismissed the feeling as superstition – foggy nightmares and little sleep will do that – but now, there is only relief, and a little awe.

The old woman chuckles, the sound of grating sand. Even her voice is old, older than, perhaps, the very place they preside in.

In his hands, Link holds the lyre, the magic of it still buzzing up his arms, clinging close to his skin and setting every fine hair on end. The Ballad still sings through him, past even his soul, buried someplace deeper than anything, fresh and waiting.

Behind them, the second Gate of Time looms, pulsating runics burning warm aquamarine.

“I don't know what to say,” Link confesses, demurely.

Her wrinkled lips press into a smile. “No need, child. Don't apologize. In all these years of guarding this place, I've come to learn that destiny has its turns. You are the Goddesses own Hero; she would not have set her faith in you without reason.”

The boy sets his jaw so hard the enamel of his teeth squeak. “But I lost her.”

She tilts her head then, vaguely reminding him of a child. “You may have lost her, but lost things can be found again. She has a role in all this, too, Link. You discredit her by putting too much blame on yourself.”

Link looks at the golden lyre clutched in his hands, strings glistening. He plucks one, absently, the chord humming straight past his flesh, a silvery-shiver.

“Do you know where she is?”

A pause.

“No,” she sighs, sadly. “I can see many things, Hero, but her whereabouts are shaded to me. Ghirahim is a demon as well as a sorcerer. His magic is different from my own.”

Some part of him wants to be disappointed, but he isn't, not the way he's supposed to be.

That smile of hers is back. “Don't look so troubled. The Gate behind you is the key to all this. It's the only thing you need – you need only awaken it. Doing so will be difficult, I won't lie, but you must. It is your fate as the chosen Hero.”

Link tries to reply, but the ground says otherwise, roiling beneath his feet, knocking him off balance.

The rumbling shakes through the very jelly of his eyeballs, a fierce and monstrous quake, and the stink like hot oil is suffocating now. Link turns to the old woman, and her wavering voice offers little reassurance.

She's up and beside him, gracefully although the world trembles beneath them. There's something familiar about this, something like a backlit memory in the pits of his mind as she looks up at him, eyes veiled.

“Link, there's no time to explain. You must hurry to the pit outside. The seal is broken.”


	5. Trust

 

“Without trust, there is nothing.” - Unknown.

* * *

 

Fledge breathes in a deep lungful of fresh air, resting at the base of a tree beneath The Statue of Hylia, gazing with no particular intent at the sky.

Link has been gone for days, since Groose followed him to The Surface. As one of the few friends Fledge has at the Knight Academy, Link's company is missed more by Fledge than any other; a close second, he thinks, would be Pipit.

“You look awfully sad, sitting there by yourself.”

Fledge yelps, looking frantically for the voice who has interrupted his thoughts, finding Pipit himself grinning down before him. Fledge sighs, a hand on his chest. He returns the grin uneasily.

“Well, sometimes I think best by myself. This is my favorite spot, and now that Groose is gone, I can stay here as long as I want.”

Pipit chuckles, coming to rest beside him, legs splayed, arms folded across his yellow tunic. He raises one dark brow, that cordial smile forming dimples on his freckled cheeks.

“Thinking about Link, then?”

Color flushes Fledge's pointed ears. “You caught me. I'm not surprised, I'm awfully easy to read,” he sighs, looking to the sky again, “I wonder how he's doing, mostly. We haven't heard from him in a while.”

Pipit claps a hand to Fledge's shoulder, the weight of it reassuring and real, warmth spilling from it. Pipit points to the statue before them, all the way up to the gentle, smiling face, haloed by the blue-green sky.

“Have some faith in him, Fledge. With The Goddess keeping guard, I'm certain Link will pull through fine. He'll bring Zelda back, and everything will be back to normal. He's our friend – we have to trust him in this.”

Fledge nods, smiling broadly.

“You're right. As long as we trust in him, Link will pull through. Thank you, Pipit.”

 

* * *

 

If he were any other man, Link knows he would have given up by now.

But Link is not any other man – because he knows this, quitting is not an option.

Sweat wets the entire front of his tunic, cleaving it to his skin, everything in himself burning up, using whatever force it can to _keep running_ , no matter the effort. The Imprisoned charges ahead of him, wriggling on its great belly, much like a snake would. At last, it drags itself up again, the spike on its head twisting to its original position.

His blade is out and flashing before he thinks it, flying down to strike the last jiggling toe on the beast's foot, the cry it makes slamming into Link's eardrums.

With a tremendous crash, The Imprisoned falls onto its back, and Link loses no precious time to sprint full-throttle to its head, bashing the seal once, twice, three times -

Link screams as the seal sinks in as far as it will go, and he staggers back when The Imprisoned thrashes upward. Link watches as its entire body flashes silver, blinking black again, only to flash once more – then to explode into numberless fragments, before being sucked back into the seal. It floats back to the center of the pit, and Link leaps down to join it.

With sweat dripping into his eyes, lungs aching, he inscribes the runes into the air with his blade, and with a final grunt, thrusts the spike back into its rightful place.

Groose joins Link moments after, jaw agape, speechless.

Link grins at him from over one shoulder, attention drawn to the old woman as she hobbles over to them.

“Though The Imprisoned had only begun to awaken, I'm impressed that you have so successfully resealed it. Unfortunately, brave boy, you have only bought us a little more time with which to act. Join me at the Temple, and I will explain to you the questions you surely have.”

Still weary, Link nods, sheathing the blade and following her back up the pit, with Groose trailing behind them.

 

* * *

 

The irony of the number three is not lost to Link.

The mysterious Gods of Old must have had a certain affinity to it, because the number three follows him where ever he goes: Three triangles, three flames, three trials. Link can't seem to escape it, but that's what fate is, isn't it? The inability of escape. Imprisonment.

Imprisonment he feels all too well.

Link shakes the thoughts away, leaning down to run his hands across the ruff of his loftwing, the feel soft crimson feathers soothing him. He flies as quickly as he can toward Skyloft, wind drying the sweat on his clothing, bangs whipping away from his forehead.

Leaning down, he takes in one final breath before flinging himself from the loftwing's back, gliding down toward Skyloft, unleashing the sailcloth moments before landing. Link's feet touch down on familiar grass, the air light and perfect here, everything familiar, just as he left it.

He stands outside the academy, taking a moment to appreciate his surroundings, Link enters, closing the heavy doors behind him.

The hall is empty. Not even the bubble of cooking food from the kitchen sounds, yet nothing else is amiss. Still trapped in the mindset of caution, Link slowly ascends the staircase to the second floor, hand leaping to his sword when -

“Link! Welcome back!”

Fledge hurtles forward, grabbing Link's hand to shake it violently, grinning so wide it rounds his cheeks.

Link stands, bewildered, taking a moment to absorb this, the hand clutching his sword lowering slowly down onto Fledge's own. He returns the boy's smile, eyes alight from within.

“Fledge! Thank you, I didn't expect – where is everyone? Are you alone?”

“No.”

Fledge drops his hand as they both turn to Pipit, striding easily to join them, each row of teeth revealed in a wide smile.

“I'm glad to see you back, Link. Fledge and I were just talking about you earlier today. You should return here more often, you know! People worry. It's not becoming of a Knight to make people worry.”

Link brushes his fingers against the back of his head, an old habit unable to leave, not even after all he's seen. His laughter is soft, but it's there, it's there. It feels eons since he's done it, this simple act of smiling and laughing, appreciated now more than ever before.

Pipit rests both hands on each boy's shoulder, shaking them with rough, boyish affection. He jerks his head toward the first floor.

“Hey, let's go have something to eat, the grannie made some really good soup today, there should be some left. While we do, you can tell us all about your adventures, Link. I'm sure they would make fine stories.”

The three of them walk together, side by side, laughter mingling.

 

* * *

 

_Two figures kneel before her, blurred like wet paint, soft sfumato edges and featureless faces._

_When Zelda hears herself speak, the voice is and is not her own._

“ _You are my creations. Your duties are to aid me in guarding the Triforce, to smite whatever evil makes to steal it, and watch over the mortals created by The Three. You are holy entities. I grant you your existence, and for this I expect your loyalty. You--”_

Zelda tosses upon her bed, the sheets pulling around her legs. This dream-memory is familiar and it is not, this person that is her and isn't her mixing up. She whimpers, curling up, hands tearing into her hair -

“ _I have given you flesh; I have given you the ability to touch, taste, feel and relish in all the things that mortals do, but you are not truly humans, my children. You are weapons. You have been created to balance one another.” Zelda raises her hand that is not really hers, pointing to the woman kneeling before her feet, blue like a summer day._

“ _You are Fi. You are to guard the Triforce of Wisdom, for you are a woman, and can see far beyond that of a man. You are the spirit of the Goddess Blade, and when I ask it, you will guide my chosen Hero to vanquish evil.”_

_Fi nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”_

_Her attention then rests on the other figure -_

The memory stirs, blotting, and Zelda groans in her sleep -

“ _....You are to guard the Triforce of Power, for you are man, and have the ambition to take what woman cannot. You are the opposite of Fi – you are a weapon of destruction. You are to be the balance between she and I, as Nature demands.”_

_The unnamed image nods. “Yes, Your Grace.”_

Zelda awakens, throwing herself upright, sweat gathering all over her skin, the hair on her arms and legs standing on end. The coldness of night seeps into her, cooling her feverish cheeks. Chest heaving, Zelda looks out her window, to the moon gleaming serenely in a dark, starless sky.

Dressed only in her blue gown, she shivers in her bed, afraid of falling back into that unfamiliar abyss, that half-world of dream and memories not her own.

 

* * *

 

_They stand across from one another, moonlight burning through the stained glass windows._

_Her image is broken into kaleidoscope-patterns, red and gold and blue; Fi stands before him, and he knows this is the last he'll see her this way, so Ghirahim takes in everything he can. She has yet to be committed into the sacred sword, and bears a human appearance like himself._

_Her hair and skin is the pale blue of the summer sky. She wears her usual dress and cape, the mantle ends brushing the stone floor. He can see the barest hint of skin where her stockings end, laced with green and blue._

_He knows that, once she is committed to the Master Sword, this flesh of hers will vanish (those lovely lips and soft blue eyes) and she will be as unfeeling as ice; what use will emotion serve a weapon? Nothing and no one._

_They stand across from one another in the moonlight, and, wordlessly, Ghrahim turns to leave._

_Then, those lovely lips part to speak, voice ringing through the Temple of the Goddess._

“ _Do you fear for your soul, Ghirahim?”_

_His hand, raised toward the door, pauses in ascent. The moonlight fizzles in through the windows, and, when he turns toward her, his face is lit by an entirely different light. She watches as his lips, sharply carved and paler than the moon, part to reveal a sickle-toothed smile, and the evil within it finds its way through her._

_Fi shudders._

_He tosses his head, tipping his chin up in a royal fashion. Fi can swear she can see darkness mottling beneath his skin. He laughs at her._

“ _Neither of us have souls to be fearful for. Aren't you angry at her for that, Fi? That our Goddess could only grant us a form – and not the fire within one? We are a mockery of her, girl. We are tools.” He flings the last word from his lips and sneers._

_Fi regards him cautiously. “There is no shame in aiding Her Grace. We were both made for a purpose greater than ourselves. You should be thankful she gave you life.”_

_Ghirahim throws his arms out and turns, head raised toward the heavens. His laughter crashes against the temple walls in strange, shrieking tangents._

“ _She gave us life so she could use us. We serve no other purpose than to aid her in guarding the Triforce, a relic we cannot even take for our own! She doesn't care for us, Fi, don't mistake her guardianship for kindness!”_

_He approaches her as if to embrace her; Fi raises her arm, one finger pointed straight at him, the ends of her cape falling from her shoulders to brush the stone floor. Moonlight sizzles through her eyes. Power glints from her like sunlight on the killing-edge of a blade._

“ _Enough of this. You will return with me and speak no more of these things. Our feelings are irrelevant; your fate is to guard the Triforce of Power. Mine is to guard the Triforce of Wisdom. I will hear no more of this blasphemy.”_

_He takes her hand, smile cutting right through her. There is coldness in everything he does; his rage is the violent tundra wind. He eases her closer, holding her hand in both his own, squeezing painfully._

“ _You could always join me, Fi. Demise has promised me more than our Goddess could ever hope to bring us.”_

_He moves as if to kiss her palm, but he presses it against his cheek instead, just to feel her shudder. Fi wrenches away, leaping backwards with more fluidity than water. They stand apart once more._

“ _Your attempts to sway me are in vain. My loyalty to Her Grace is insurmountable. She has given me – us – all that can be given. Your greed has shrouded your ability to see it.”_

_There is silence._

_He glares. There is something like sadness in his face, but Fi knows it can't be so, because he was never meant to feel such things – they are the antithesis of one another, two shadows thrown on different walls; they are each the opposite scale, neither outweighing the other._

_Balance._

_Fi continues. “Demise has deceived you. The only usefulness he sees in you is to accomplish his own goals. He has no interest in your wants. You will be more of a tool to him than Hylia could ever make of you. He will cast you aside the moment your use has ceased.”_

_Ghirahim shakes his head, groaning wildly, breaking off into half-mad chuckles or yells. His voice shakes the very windows._

“ _That's where you're wrong! He and I share the same goals: to conquer! To change this world into something more than it is! Why don't you see it, Fi? This world was doomed from the very start!”_

_He's before her once more, clasping her shoulders and jerking her helplessly back and forth, the madness seeming to clot beneath his skin; she can smell it, now, stronger than ever, the chemical stink of darkness, and he is lathed in it. His voice is so loud it crashes into her skull._

“ _What's the use of guarding,” - Fi gasps in pain - “when we could take? Why should you and I subject ourselves to slavery,” - his hands find her neck and squeeze - “when we could be free?”_

_Fi grasps his arms, skin sizzling where it meets his own. Her jaw works wordlessly in an effort to speak, panic blooming hot and awful in her chest, a prelude to an attack, or death, she's too overwhelmed to tell – and when he leans in to snicker in her ear, the panic bursts into a golden light, burning out of her. Ghirahim is flung away from her to land painfully on the floor, screaming in agony._

_Fi pants, her own magic wafting off her in thin blue streams. Ghirahim lies, panting but otherwise motionless, beneath the rays moonlight shining through the stained glass window above him. Fi raises her eyes toward that light, onto the smiling image of Hylia herself, carved into the glass._

_Ghirahim stumbles upright, groaning and clutching his head. His hands fall to his sides, balling tight, the muscles of his shoulders and neck cording with the strain._

“ _I'll be stronger than ever,” he says with finality. He raises his head to glare at the image of Hylia above him, entire face pulled into a look of such rage and determination, Fi is certain it would light the world on fire if he gazed upon it._

_That gaze drifts slowly toward her; Fi quivers before him as if preforming falsified worship, to this being no longer of the heavens like herself._

_His voice borrows the darkness around them. “When your Goddess sentences you to that blade, and a life of servitude under her, I hope you think of me and the offer you so foolishly denied. I officially renounce my title as Sentinel of the Triforce of Power. Demise will make me a Lord,” he laughs, “I will be a Lord of Demons, Fi, and you will be the slave to a doomed world. I will be free.”_

_They stay apart a moment more, before his disappears into the darkness, yet his voice remains inside her long after._

_Fi looks to the image of Hylia; in one hand she holds a blade, and in the other, a red apple._

_Fi falls to her knees, awestruck. “You knew all along, “ she whispers tightly, “You knew, Your Grace. You knew.”_


	6. Chimera

 

“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” – Oscar Wilde

* * *

  
  
He remembers warm days bathing in the springs, the scent of cut grass strong in the air -

Link breathes in, eyes blown open like windows in a thunderstorm, which so often shook the clouds below Skyloft -

He shakes his head, sweat running down his cheeks to dribble along his jaw, clinging precariously, before falling to the collar of his already damp tunic. Link has no time even to wipe his face, crouched low and terrified at the base of a tree in this spirit-world that isn't a world at all, not alike any he's ever known.

Time measures his fate, a brewing storm awaiting to be awakened, much like the Guardians of this realm.

He has thirty-five seconds to find the last tear before those same Guardians are revived again.

Link understands where Fi's magic originates, where that unearthly light she radiates makes its home. The Guardians and even the plants in this Silent Realm glow with that same magic. How different she is to the ones guarding this realm and the treasure within it.

With quivering legs, Link rises and bolts straight ahead, catapulting himself over a fallen log, lunging past trees and over rocks, faster than he's ever run in his life. A single green tear gleams before him, just up a hill -

Link trips, flying to the ground on his belly, smashing both hands and elbows to the earth. His jaw cracks on a rock, rendering him numb and sightless with pain, rolling to his back with a groan of anguish.

The sky above him pulses the brightest amber he's ever seen, alight from within, invisible bells clanging in the very air, counting down the time, time he doesn't have -

There is pain in every movement, but Link heaves himself up anyway, stumbling without grace up the hill, crawling on hands and knees, eyes only for the teardrop ahead. He's whimpering the names of everyone he knows, (very un-heroic behavior, some part of him sneers) though they're literally worlds away, unable to hear.

_Three -_

_Two -_

_One -_

He screams when the last bell toll bangs through the air, and all around him the Guardians awake from their slumber, clutching strange blades and cleavers larger than Link himself – every one of them made only to smite him.

Blood from his hands and mouth stains the grass Link crawls upon, but the tear is within his grasp -

He cannot see them, but he knows they're near, soundless footfalls all around, their clean-cut bodies afire with lucent light, a light that burns inside his nostrils -

Behind him, a Guardian raises its arm high, the blade it wields aglow for a strike -

Link's fingertips graze the teardrop, so softly as to barely make contact, and the realm goes silent once more, the Guardians back in their resting places.

Link smiles a bloody smile, clutching the last tear in both hands, warm with sacred power. It explodes into shimmering fragments before vanishing into his chest. There is no time for rest, and, wiping his brow, Link makes his way toward the circle of light far below, eager to return to his own realm.

 

* * *

 

There is nothing more she wants than to _know._

Had she a kingdom to surrender, Zelda would give it to have only knowledge, an answer to the questions which keep her awake at night, not from terror, but from the unknown.

Questions steal her footsteps, plaguing the thoughts not on escape. _Why's_ and _how's_ and _when's._ They sneak into her ears as an insect might, until their buzzing is all she can hear.

Zelda wanders through the hallways, the still whiteness of the walls rendering her mute. She despises the feeling of uselessness above all, nestled closely to loneliness. She is not a prisoner in these walls of stone and silence, but one of her own mind, because where can you hide from your own thoughts?

She has no answers.

There is no one in this entire palace of mute white walls, no sound other than herself, but the solitude is a blessing in its own deviant way; with only herself to hear, Zelda can say whatever she wishes.

She stops, turning toward a window larger than herself, which lets in the saturnine-gray sunlight, typical of the sky after a storm.

“I want answers.”

Zelda blinks at the sky above her. One hand comes to rest against her own throat, fingers spread against her collarbones, sharper now from fatigue. She hates that feeling, too, of weakness, the kind that can sink souls.

She draws in a breath. “I want to know why he keeps me here,” her voice gains volume, “I want to know what those dreams mean,” her whole body shakes, “I want to know! By any Goddess above or below, I only ask for answers!”

Zelda screams, a paroxysm of noise, smashing her fists into the enchanted glass, battering it with her palms and fingers and elbows, because screaming is the only thing she can do in this empty castle. She screams until everything aches.

She sinks to the floor, lower and lower, until she presses her cheek against its cold surface, sobbing silently, hands in her hair. She weeps not for herself, or her own circumstances, because she knows tears for oneself do nothing, so she cries for everything else, for the kingdom she cannot give.

 

* * *

 

“I want to know, Fi.”

Link lounges, back against the wall of a ruin, legs out and crossed at the ankles. It is well past sunset, yet sleep evades him once more tonight.

He rests someplace in the woods, near enough to a waterfall that he can hear its quiet hiss through the gaps in trees, their sides covered in a mossy coat. Not even moonlight finds its way through the foliage above his head. He's shed his equipment, which lies by his side.

A potion has mended his injuries, and the Water Dragon's scale dangles from a string around his neck, flashing in the firelight. The scale is his only trophy from Farore's Trial.

Fi suspends herself before him, the firelight behind her like a blazing set of wings, glinting off the polished surface of her serene face.

“I will divulge whatever information you request, Master, if I should possess the answer.”

Link bites the inside of his cheek, averting his gaze to the sword she was birthed from.

“You said the Goddess Hylia guarded the Triforce. The Triforce was made by the three Goddesses Din, Nayru and Farore. I want to know more about them.”

She tilts her head in such a way that, had she flesh, Link knows she would be grinning. He doesn't know what sort of grin, but he imagines it would be soft, with the prettiness of gems.

“You will have to be more specific, Master Link. I know a great deal about The Three.”

Link huffs, lips flapping from exasperation. He fumbles, for a moment, unused to voicing his specific thoughts.

“That is, Fi, I want to know why they created the Triforce. I want to know why that, since they knew it held such great power, they trusted it in the hands of mortals. I want to know why they would be so cruel.”

He blushes, shamefully, the blasphemy of his own words growing cold against his lips.

Fi nods, a graceful sweep, unperturbed.

“I do not believe they did it as an act of cruelty, Master. Being Goddesses, they have no concept of right or wrong, none that we, as mortals, are able to understand. However, I cannot calculate the percentage of this statement. I can provide an estimate, if you wish.”

Link shakes his head.

“Very well. The Goddess has provided me with an innumerable database of information on The Three, should you have another inquiry, Master.”

Link nods toward the sword by his side. “You said that the Goddess created you to aid me, and that you're the spirit of the sword. Did she create any other weapons, besides you? Were you made alone?”

Fi is silent. There is no movement of her, not even the weightless ebb and flow of her azure sleeves.

She is silent for the longest time Link has ever known her to be.

“Fi?”

He reaches a hand out toward her, as if to place it on the wing of her arm, instinctively – Link lowers it moments later.

“I lack sufficient information to answer that specific inquiry. My most sincere apologies, Master Link. Is that all you need of me?”

His shoulders slump. “Yes,” he sighs, “that's all. Thank you, Fi.”

For the hundredth-millionth time he's seen her do it, Fi vanishes into the sword with the grace of anything he's ever seen.

Link watches the fire, swallowing the cinders he's fed it, wishing it could talk, wondering if anything in this world will provide the answers he seeks.

 

* * *

  
 _The Goddess Din, patron of desire, strength and war, who wrought the earth with fire, favors those of ambition.  
  
The Goddess Nayru, patron of thought, pride and water, who sown the seeds of law with magic, favors those of foresight._  
  
 _The Goddess Farore, patron of spirit, bravery and nobility, who planted the teeth of dragons to cultivate life, favors those of conviction.  
  
The Goddess Hylia, patron of time, death and birth, who guarded the Golden Power, favors those of mercy._  
  
Zelda's lips still. In her lap rests an open book, a collection of scribbling glyphs, given to her by her father. It was the same day she was gifted a Loftwing, its blue feathers matching her eyes, the same day she joined the academy.  
  
Although those days are dead, now, Zelda remembers them fondly.  
  
(And sometimes wishes she can't).  
  
She hates this, this sitting before windows and reading, waiting for something to happen, because she's never been good at waiting or making wishes. She is her father's daughter, she is a knight, and she is the creation of a Goddess herself. She is not one for weeping or rainfall.  
  
She is unsure on whom to lay her hatred: Ghirahim, for capturing her, or herself, for making herself his prisoner.  
  
Zelda knows the only one to blame for this is herself, but knows that, if she could only wait a while longer (for the dust to gather on her book, perhaps) she will take any chance presented to her.  
  
Her book falls to the floor when she jumps, the suddenness of noise filling the palace.  
  
She turns in the chair to gaze at Ghirahim, lazing against the window behind her. He rests on the sill of it, one leg tucked under him, the other braced against the floor. He sits there as if the window is his very own throne.  
  
This is his kingdom, and he is its Lord, though he has no subjects to rule.  
  
He tips his head like a curious child, though there is nothing childish about him. With the sunlight behind him, the clouds are pseudo-wings, spread out, gray-blue and roiling.  
  
"I hope all that tiresome reading has given you an appetite today. I'll give you all the books in the universe if it means you actually _eat,”_ he shudders, "though I will if need be, I have no desire to force-feed you as I've threatened in the past."  
  
He looks at her for a moment, tapping his foot. She only lowers her brows.  
  
Ghirahim actually _giggles_ , clapping both hands together. "That was a joke, you stupid girl. It's getting terribly boring, watching you sulk like some whipped animal. The least you could do is entertain your Lord and ruler."  
  
Zelda purses her lips, thumbs pressing hard into her palms where she fists her hands. "I am not your subject, and you are not my ruler."

He gives her an incredulous look, laughing oddly through his nose. “Think what you want, I suppose. It does not change your circumstances.”

Then, unintentionally: “Why do you keep me here?”  
  
He makes a noise closer to a sigh than a laugh. "I keep you here because I can."  
  
It's her turn to throw him an incredulous look. "I'm not afraid of you."  
  
He shrugs, dark eyes widening as he smiles cruelly. He holds up one finger, pointing it straight at the ceiling. "That's rather fortuitous. I never wanted you to fear me, though do not misunderstand me, I do enjoy invoking terror - you should focus your fear on other people, I think."  
  
Zelda eyes the book, fallen in such a way that it lies wide open, on the lullaby she had been reading moments prior. Lullabies have no place here. She stares at it with all the focus she can summon.  
  
"The only thing I fear in this world is what should happen if I let you win, Ghirahim." She looks to him, accidentally.  
  
He turns supplicate suddenly, the sweetness of burnt sugar. "I promise you, Zelda," her name is strange when he says it, "that I have no intention of ever harming you. You are far too useful to me for that. As much as I may want to, as I'm sure you have the loveliest of screams - you are in no danger so long as you stay with me."  
  
There is a shudder deep within her, between the emptiness of her belly and chest. "You do want me for something, then. Why don't you just take it? Why keep me here if you need it so badly? You know Link is looking for me. You don't strike me as a stupid man, Ghirahim."  
  
He tosses his head, hair flying. “You're very simple, you know. Of course I'm not going to _tell you_ those things. It would ruin all of my plans.”

He rises to walk nearer, sighing. “This talk bores me. Come, now, you should eat – and I mean it this time – before the hour grows any later.”

Ghirahim takes her arm, snapping the fingers of his free hand, and once again, Zelda finds herself at the massive table laid out with another dizzying feast, Ghirahim taking the seat across her.

He sweeps one arm across the table in what she assumes is a welcoming gesture. Then, he plucks a single apple from a platter full of them, tossing it to her. Zelda captures it with ease, its skin free of any bruise or blemish, as if he had picked it fresh only moments ago.

Ghirahim smiles mysteriously. “Does that seem familiar to you?”

Zelda turns the apple in her hands. Her reflection upon its glossy surface is warped. “It's an apple. I don't understand what you mean by that.”

The demon clicks his tongue, shaking his head mournfully. “I thought you might say that. Enough of this, eat.”

She stares at the apple a few seconds more, blue eyes moving to look at him, trained there, before raising the apple to her lips, biting softly into its flesh with a crisp, watery crunch. She swallows cautiously.

Ghirahim explodes into laughter, so abruptly a few plates crash to the floor. He laughs so loud and hard Zelda is certain he will suffocate if it continues.

“What? You think I poisoned that apple? You think that it would put you in some eternal slumber with a single bite? You humans,” he knocks a great platter of fruit to the floor. “This is no fairytale, nor a fairy tail,” he chuckles, the fruit, rolling at his feet, now bruised.

These outbursts of his no longer daunt her. Zelda stares at him from across the plates of food, the setting sun burning everything orange-red. She takes another bite of the apple, ignoring the too-sweet taste, nibbling it all the way down to its naked core.

She finishes three plates of delicacies that have lost their taste, doing so only because he's demanded it of her – because she knows he is not one to keep promises.

His smile is nearly sincere, just a little. “Oh? No begging you to shove something down your gullet this time? Impressive.”

In her lap, Zelda clutches her book, pressing her fingernails so hard into its cover they split. She says nothing.

He scoffs, throwing both legs over the arm of his chair, one end of his cape falling across its back.

While he looks away, a single knife, resting precariously on the edge of her plate, catches the evening light.

There rests her chance.

Slowly, as steadily as she can, Zelda trails her fingertips up to its handle, easing it with a shaking grip down into her lap and between the pages of her book. Ghirahim looks back to her mere seconds after the blade is safe in her hands. She hopes he can't see the sweat glittering on her forehead.

He smiles sweetly. With a sweeping leap, he rises from the chair to flash-vanish to her side. He looms over her, significantly taller even when she stands, and Zelda gazes up at him, for the first time, with terror.

He leans in close, easing one of her slim hands away from her lap, grasping her wrist deftly in his own, before raising the upturned flesh of her hand to his lips.

Zelda stills a gasp of disgust between her tightly clenched jaw. She can't breathe. She can't think. She stares at him with the terror of a captured animal.

He mumbles softly against her skin, fangs leering against the fine bones of her hands, a dark omen.

_This is no fairytale, child._

“Until tomorrow, then, my little nightingale.”

 

* * *

 

He finds her sleeping in the antechamber of his castle, hours after.  
  
Zelda lies on her side, one arm pillowing her head. Her golden hair falls over the edge of the settee, pale white gown tangled about her legs. Starlight shines through the window, making her gown almost, but not quite, transparent to his gaze. Beneath the cloth he can see the paleness of her flesh, the softness of her thighs, sinful teases.  
  
How easy it would be, to slip his fingers around her neck, very softly so as not to wake her, and choke the air from her lungs.  
  
She says something in her sleep, muffled words. Ghirahim feels them _drip, drip, drip_ from her lips and onto his skin. It burns like no flame he’s ever felt, and it turns his insides white-hot, an emotion without name. His hands fist at his sides, curling into the red cloak draped around his shoulders. His white lips quiver with unspoken rage.  
  
But this time of year is cold, and it would not do for her to become sick, not when her sacrifice is of such importance. Ghirahim knows she's of more use to him full of health than bedraggled with sickness. How weak, how _human_ to be brought down by something like illness.  
  
When he kneels to take her into his arms, Zelda remains asleep, her head against his shoulder, hair tangled in his hands. The softness of her fills him with revulsion; the way she feels, the way she breathes, the shadows her lashes make upon her cheek.  
  
“Humans,” he mutters, scowling, though her eyes are closed, unable to see him and this hate of his unfold.  
  
He takes her to her bedroom, wanting to laugh at the irony; men carry women to their beds to make love to them, an act he is incapable of, so he’ll make love to her in a different way, the best way he can.  
  
Ghirahim lays her down against the sheets, dipping his head very near to her face, his wintry hair tickling her cheek. One of his gloved hands comes to rest very delicately against her throat. Her pulse beats beneath his fingertips.  
  
“Dream while you can, skychild,” he whispers into her ear. “Dream whatever dreams you wish, however pleasant you make them to be. Dream well. They are all you have in the entire cosmos.”  
  
He stays that way a moment more, before disappearing altogether.  
  
Zelda dreams.


	7. Possession

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned.” - William Congreve

* * *

 

Before him blazes a fire.

Ghirahim hovers, swinging lazily to and fro, in a dimension of darkness. The fire before him bleeds into the void, illuminating the paleness of his face and glittering upon the jewels on his cloak. This place is lonely and silent, a dimension amidst the one of Twilight and Nothingness.

He postures himself lazily, legs crossed at the knee, reclining as if bathing in sunlight. He gazes into the fire, born to life with magic, as if doing so will provide him the answers he seeks.

It spits and writhes angrily.

Holding out one palm, he twists his fingers, shaping the fire into monstrous figures, awful shapes of unearthly origin. They roar and growl, deformed mouths and arms and legs, curling into themselves.

His hand wrenches into a fist, and the fire extinguishes.

Ghirahim closes his eyes, breathing in.

_He imagines her hands in his hair and on his face, so close the light of her permeates through his pores. She exhales the sweet efflux of a storm in springtime._

_He reaches as if to rake his fingernails against her cheek -_

Ghirahim lurches, eyes opening to the dimness. Breathing in, he brings the flames back to life, a slow-burning sunrise of copper and gold.

Within it emerges the figure of a woman; she pulses, breathes, as much a living thing as he can ever create. She twirls her make-believe skirts and beckons him forward, long hair storming around her figure. Her face, smiling bewitchingly, is both majestic and fierce.

This phoenix, this woman of flame and smoke, is the closest thing he will ever have of _her,_ untouchable to him in mind and flesh. Should he reach for her, she will surely burn him to ash.

She is at once the seed of his every desire, and the origin of his every wrath.

Rising, Ghirahim inhales hard through his teeth, tensing, sinewy muscles coiling up beneath his pallid skin.

Within one hand he manifests a great ebony rapier. Ghirahim curls his other hand around its hilt, each finger coming slowly to rest, gripped so tightly the material of his gloves chafe against the metal. With the firelight gleaming off it, he raises it high above his head, stretching his body so tightly the hollow of his ribcage protrudes -

She screams as he cleaves her through, the remnants of her lingering as the flames on his sword, the closest thing she has to blood. She flickers, for a moment, before snuffing out altogether.

Darkness surrounds him once more.

 

* * *

 

“ _Your Grace, there is no forgiving what I have let transpire. I give my most fervent apologies, and graciously accept any punishment.”_

_Fi kneels on both knees, palms pressed flat against the stone floor of the temple. Behind her, the awakening gold of dawn glimmers through the stained glass windows. They preside in the Temple of Hylia, the world outside fresh with life._

_Hylia nods grimly. She lifts one hand to place it upon the crown of Fi's head, blue hair soft beneath her palm. Her voice has the warmth of sunlight._

“ _There is no need for punishment, Fi, for you have done no wrong. It is Ghirahim who has betrayed me, not you. Rise now, and speak no more of penance.”_

_The spirit does so, soft azure lips parted with wordless thanks, nodding. She falters, for a moment, averting her eyes before her Goddess, standing radiant so near to her. Fi's lips quiver very faintly, when she asks, finally:_

“ _You knew he would betray us, didn't you? You knew Demise would tempt him to join his demonic hordes. You knew.”_

_Hylia looks to the ceiling, face aglow with light, golden hair falling away from her cheeks. One elegant hand comes to rest against her chest. When she lowers her head to cast her eyes upon Fi, she smiles, very faintly._

“ _You're as clever as your namesake, Fi, lover of wisdom. I knew you would discover it eventually. You are right in everything; I did indeed know that Ghirahim would turn his back on us, although I wish it did not have to be so. “_

_Fi looks toward the doors of the temple, where Ghirahim had been standing little hours before, the same doors he had shut between them. She shakes her head, sadly._

“ _I do not understand why he left. It is illogical. You gave him all that he could have ever desired, and is that not all one such as him could want? He viewed himself as your slave. My protests did nothing to deter him in joining Demise,” she sighs._

_She dips her head, elegant blue profile struck against the golden sunlight. “Now that Demise has his power, our battle will be more daunting than ever. He is no longer a holy blade – if he was ever one to begin with. We will be forced to smite them both.”_

_Hylia is silent. Outside the temple walls, the sounds of nature flourish, uncaring of the two beings within._

_She outstretches one hand, palm forward, and brings forth the very sunlight, condensing it into two solid figures, dazzling white. So bright are they that the walls are bleached yellow. One figure bears the appearance of Ghirahim himself, and the other, Fi._

_Fi watches, quietly, mouth parted, watching as the two forms draw near; the mock-Ghirahim offers his hand to the mock-Fi, and they join together to dance._

_Hylia continues. “When in harmony, the elements of light and dark can turn the world into a prosperous, golden land. The light and darkness have always co-existed.”_

_Hylia clenches her fist, and the shining figures part, Ghirahim turning a piceous, inky black. The form sneers at the real Fi, murky face full of lunatic fury. He offers his hand to her, body oozing onto the floor to pool at her feet._

_Fi only tips her chin bravely._

_Hylia grins. The light-beings evaporate, back into glimmering sunbeams._

“ _Ghirahim betrayed us because his own darkness clouded his vision, no matter how bright your shine. Those of Power are also those of ambition. He is the element to balance yours, Fi.”_

_She raises one arm to sweep it across the air before them, stars crackling to life, the temple now a glowing galaxy._

_Fi stands in awe, so near to the stars that she could touch them, their light a phosphorescent silver-blaze. Around the stars is the blackest color she has ever laid eyes upon._

_Hylia comes beside her, plucking a star from its refuge in the dark, holding it between them both. It flickers in her palm like a captured firefly._

“ _You are the light, Fi, the calm to his lust, and the reason to my courage. We three cannot exist without the other. Your role in vanquishing Demise is greater than you might think.”_

_Hylia coaxes the star back into place, gazing at its brightness. She turns back to Fi, and takes both blue hands into her own. Her voice grows somber._

“ _Oh, Fi. I only wish you could keep this form and all that comes with the pleasures of mortals. But your role is to guide my Hero, and mortals are impure – there must only be light within you as the spirit of the Master Sword.”_

_Fi's eyes flicker shut, everything within her washing out, a numb tingle filling her being. She nods, stiffly. Her chest heaves with each quivering breath._

_Hylia lowers her head, and where their hands meet, begins a slow ribbon of light, creeping onto each of Fi's fingers. It crawls up her arms and shoulders, bleeding down her breasts and torso. The light hardens into a luminescent blue shell, turning her flesh into crystal._

_She watches as Fi's flesh disappears beneath her new form, and all but her head remains, the shell twisting slowly up her neck._

_Then, Fi's eyes open, shimmering with starlight. Her voice quakes._

“ _How will I know who the Hero is?”_

_Hylia smiles gently. “You will know, Fi.”_

_They gaze at one another, silently. Then, Fi nods, breathing in._

_The last of her vanishes into her new crystalline form, silent and still. Hylia drags a few fingers down that cold, impassive face, free of the impurities of flesh and all the darkness of man._

“ _You are the light, Fi. Where there is darkness, the light must be present.”_

* * *

 

Before her blazes a fire.

Zelda sits, legs beneath her, atop her bed. Her hands rest easily against her knees, head bent just slightly, flaxen hair falling over one shoulder. Her windows have been covered, so that the only illumination comes from the fire. It saturates everything bright orange and the charred black of shadows.

In her lap, laid carefully across her thighs, the stolen knife flashes menacingly.

Cautiously, she brings it into one hand, the wooden handle smooth and finely grained against her skin. She presses the pad of one finger against its pointed blade, hesitating a moment, before dragging it across her flesh, opening a neat red slice.

She watches the blood drizzle down her palm, splashing her dress and staining it, though she hardly cares.

Zelda sticks her wounded finger into her mouth, laving her tongue against the sore, brows lowered. The blade is, at least, sharp enough to kerf human flesh – whether or not it will work on _him_ is unknown to her.

She tears a strip of cloth from her gown, now worn and faded of its powder-blue color, to wrap the strip tightly around her wounded finger. The blood seeps quickly through it.

Most women would pale at the sight of blood, but Zelda is a knight in her heart, and blood is commonplace when training at the academy.

She chuckles, weakly. In her mind emerges memories of bandaging the wounded knees of her classmates, or cleaning the cuts and scrapes Link often acquired when handling a sword.

“ _Stop squirming,” she would demand, a hand pressed to his arm or his shoulder, “'You will just make it worse! A future knight must grow used to blood! Oh, Link,” and she would laugh at the blush of shame on his ears, “just think, what if I wasn't here to do this for you?”_

Zelda winces, shaking the thoughts away. Back then, she never would have thought that her jokes would become ironic reality; here she sits, away from those she loves most, unable to attend to their wounds, no matter how fiercely she wishes to.

She inhales, jarringly.

“There's a chance I'll fail,” she says to herself. Zelda looks solemnly at the knife, her best chance of escaping this soulless castle and the demon which rules it.

She turns slightly to regard the fire twisting in the hearth, its heat harsh against her cheekbones. She moistens her lips, pressing them into a flat, determined line. She holds the knife in both fists, bringing it close to her face.

She compares the wicked gleam of it to his eyes, often looking upon her with such cruelty and malice; Ghirahim himself is like the blade she holds in her hands, a thing made only for destruction; harsh, sharp, unforgiving.

Zelda recalls the faces of her loved ones, bleary around the edges, but they bring strength to her, even now.

“There's also a chance I'll succeed.”

 

* * *

 

Her mind is a torsion of color and shapes, rushing by faster than she can fathom.

Impa's dark, lean shoulders shudder as she inhales. Her young, noble face is relaxed, thin sable lips slightly parted. Her eyes move ceaselessly beneath her closed eyelids, pale lashes fluttering. She sits in a meditative style, elbows on her knees.

Through her mind's eye, she sails past mountains, rivers and forests, down into caves and beneath the earth itself. She searches the clouds, the volcano, the desert, the forest. She looks in every crag or hollow she can find, yet Zelda's whereabouts remain elusive.

Redwater eyes come slowly open. Struck against the starlight behind her, Impa's dark skin glows ashen, pale blonde hair shot through with white. She stares into the murk ahead of her, as much a home to her as the walls around her. For she is a Shiekah, a woman of shadow and secrets, most at ease with the warm, musky veil of darkness.

She has searched to the very ends of her known world, past and present, yet still there is no proof of Zelda ever being there.

Impa shifts, rolling her shoulders, cracking her elbows, stretching the tenseness away from her legs. The temple of Hylia is hushed, enclosed with night. She has been searching tirelessly for days, but knows no rest must be had, no matter how weary her mind is.

She stares into the darkness, frowning.

“Where is she?”

The shadows have no answer.

Impa sighs, shaking her head. Her gaze roams toward the window she sits beneath, Hylia's image pieced into the glass. It does her little justice, Impa thinks, her otherworldly radiance barely captured.

Impa startles, jaw falling open, eyes wide and glittering.

“I've only searched the world I _know,_ ” she whispers feverishly, “I never thought of looking for her in another one.”

Once again, her posture relaxes, eyes closing, mind falling back into her magic. She retreats far into herself, willing her consciousness up into the night sky, even beyond the clouds. She shakes with the effort, sweat pearling on her forehead.

No Shiekah has, in her time, ever surpassed another dimension with their ability of Sight.

There are stars and bodies of light she cannot name, comets thundering across the galaxy, great clusters of rock. Her stomach twists, whole body lit up, heartbeat clapping beneath her ribs, as Impa wills her mind past the fabric of space itself.

When it feels as though her mind will shatter, she finds herself beyond her own dimension, in a one of total and absolute darkness. She can sense the edges of Twilight brushing past its expanse, along with another realm of Nothingness.

Impa concentrates. There's something else, too, something she's felt before, a familiar pulse of energy. She ventures farther in, cautiously. Though her physical body remains in her world, the coldness of this realm shudders into her mind.

“I thought I was finally _rid_ of you, Shiekah.”

His voice rumbles into her head, and Impa gasps in pain.

Ghirahim stands before her, arms crossed, in the dark dimension she resides in, the whiteness of his skin and hair creating a glaring contrast to it.

Impa never wavers. “Where have you taken Her Grace?”

Ghirahim growls, baring fangs. “I have to hand it to you, never have I seen a Shiekah so disgustingly persistent. You've even traveled between dimensions in search for your little Goddess!”

Though Impa's body shudders, her mind remains strong. “Nothing will deter me from finding Her Grace and keeping her safe. It is my duty as a Shiekah.”

Ghirahim flings himself into a rolling backflip, holding his sides and laughing. His laughter is so hysterical it quakes through her bones.

“Indeed!” He shrieks, coming to a stop, chuckling at intervals. “I must say, you have done an atrocious job of it, unless your idea of 'protection' is different from my own.”

Impa glares. “One such as you knows only hatred and rage. What you do is nothing like protection.”

Ghirahim grows very serious then, stilling completely. He tosses his head, silvery hair falling away from the black diamond cut into his cheek.

“Now, that was very rude. Not that I expected any better from you, but there is something you should know about me.”

A terrible grating feeling overcomes her then, like a blade shearing away at the fabric of her mind, past her magic and into her chest. Impa doubles over, arms clenched tightly around herself, crying out.

He's so close in her mind that she can see every pinpoint of gray in his eyes, and Impa realizes that they are not black, but the deep, burgundy color of coagulated blood. He reaches past her consciousness with his own, invading her being, splintering slowly through her body.

His grin has the feral edge of a cat toying with a mouse before he eats it.

“I hate people without manners,” Ghirahim continues, now a voice in her head rather than a physical being, “and you,” a raw, icy feeling creeps into Impa's chest - “are being,” Ghirahim's breathing grows labored - “intolerably rude.”

Impa is thrown from the dark dimension and back into her own, but the feeling of him lingers inside her. She pants shallowly, sweat pouring down her back and wetting her clothes, throat parched, cheeks alight.

Her teeth rattle as the demon speaks again, crowding every corner of her mind and washing away any other thought.

“She's changed, you know,” he says, very carefully, voice the slow run of oil.

Impa sobs in pain, forehead crushed against the stone floor, entire body wracked with shivers, though she manages to croak:

“What do you mean?”

Suddenly the coldness disappears, replaced by a sickly warm feeling, a greasy, slick flow pooling deep into her belly. Impa gags, vision swirling, pushing back against it with all her strength.

His voice becomes dementedly sweet, a mockery of reassuring. He laughs.

“You will know, Shiekah. You will know.”

Impa whimpers when, at last, Ghirahim's presence leaves her. Quaking, she breathes in great breaths of air, folded into herself, lean arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. She licks the sweat away from her lips, a few strands of pale hair clinging close to her mouth. With great effort, she sits upright, head bowed, eyes tightly shut.

“What did he mean,” she breathes hoarsely to the shadows, “oh, Goddess, what did he mean?”

Above her, the image of Hylia smiles serenely, as the first light of dawn chases away the shadows.


	8. Omen

“As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.” – Oscar Wilde

* * *

  
  
She sits, still and quiet as she has ever been.

Groose has been outside for hours, still moping, she presumes. The old woman stills a sigh of annoyance, gazing hard at the stone doors before her. She shifts only to pop her knuckles and knees.

Still, she only has so much patience, and sighing, she hefts herself up, walking slowly toward the doors, then finally outside. Midday sunlight burns her weary eyes, yet the grass and trees are green, alive with birds.

Groose sobs pitifully nearby.

The old woman lets go a shaky laugh. “Boy, what do you wish to accomplish standing out here and mourning for yourself? Come now, it does not suit you.”

Groose sniffles boorishly. “Go away.”

She shakes her head, shuffling nearer to lay one hand against his meaty arm. “I cannot do that. Thinking of you out here pitying yourself like a know-nothing child troubles me. Sit with me, Groose.”

He looks down to her, so bent with age she hardly reaches his waist. Sighing, Groose nods, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He follows her to the pit’s edge, sitting down beside her in the grass. Groose looks away from her, tearing grass away from the earth, dropping its twisted remains into a pile beside his knee.

She pats his arm, chuckling, rough but no less musical. Groose bites his cheek, turning toward her, one hand smoothing his hair. She cranes her neck to look at him from under her hood.

“What is it you called that again? Your _pompadour?”_

Groose grins, nodding proudly. “Yup! And there’s been no finer pompadour in history, Grannie. Girls are crazy for it me in Skyloft!”

The old woman snorts, rocking back slightly. “I’m sure. How did you come up with it, Groose?”

He flushes a florid shade of red. “Well! I just thought it would look nice, you know? No one else on Skyloft had tried it before – so I thought ‘why not?’ I even make the gel myself!”

She nods, one finger pointed to it. “It must have taken some creativity and ingenuity to come up with it.”

Groose rubs his neck, shrugs. “I suppose. A lot of good that ‘creativity’ and ‘ingenuity’ or whatever you call it is doing me now, though.”

A smile curls her thin, wrinkled lips. She slaps Groose lightly on his knee. “Ah, not that again. You cannot expect to be of use to anyone moping around and making wishes.”

He leans forward to rest his chin in one palm, fingers curled up against his lips.

“Yeah, but what _can_ I do? You said it yourself, Stink – I mean, uh, _Link_ is the big hero and everything. All I did was stand around like an idiot while he fought that thing.”

He gestures down to where The Imprisoned lies, sealed away.

The old woman shifts to pop her knuckles, Groose wincing as she does. She lays one hand against his own, her skin dry, fingers curled softly around his palm.

“Think of it this way: You can stand around like an idiot when it awakes again, or you can be useful and help. You want to bring Zelda back, do you not? Sulking will not help her. You have to use your skills to do that.”

Groose lowers his brow, raising his head. “I do want to help Zelda. I was never like this before. Link might have that fancy talking sword, but I have _myself!_ Ain’t that good enough? I think it is!”

His amber eyes stray to the metal gate surrounding the pit’s cusp, before brightening with a smile. “That’s it!”

Groose laughs, hurtling to his feet, smoothing his hair back. “I think I know what I can do now, Grannie! I guess I do have creativity and ingenuity like you said.”

The old woman smiles up at him. Groose offers one hand, helping her to stand, grinning down at her.

“Thanks, Grannie. I won’t do anybody good feeling sorry for myself. I’m going to make that thing stay down next time. I’m going to do my part and help Zelda. Link shouldn’t take all the credit!”

She makes an approving sound. “I’m glad, Groose. You can thank me by helping me back inside.”

Groose chuckles. “No problem, Grannie.”

 

* * *

_Far away, she can see a pure white lamb, drinking from a deep black pond. A tree hangs over it, rich with foliage. Above it, night sky is bereft of stars.  
  
Zelda calls to it. The lamb continues to drink, and where its mouth meets the water the blackness ripples out. Coming closer, Zelda finds that her pale white dress has been replaced, by one of sheer fabric as black as the pond from which the lamb drinks. But all she can think of is the lamb itself, and feels that it should not be drinking from water so dark and foreboding -_  
  
Zelda groans in her sleep, head buried beneath her blanket, her dream growing more vivid.  
  
 _Grass stains her bare feet as she runs, dress and hair surging behind her._  
  
The lamb remains as it is, looking up only as Zelda wraps her arms around it, its coat impossibly soft, and takes it away from the water. She pants heavily, pressing a kiss to its forehead, running one hand down its back –

She kicks the blankets off and away, curled tightly into herself.

_Zelda turns it in her arms, smiling as it cries out, quietly, looking to her with glossy eyes. She can feel its heartbeat faintly against her fingers, its breath soft against her cheek. Though the sky is dark, she can clearly see the lamb in her arms, its coat many shades paler than her own skin._

_The lamb’s breathing grows shallow. Zelda frowns, holding its face, petting it gently, and the little lamb lays its head against her breast. She calls to it, blue eyes wide with fright, running her hands up and down its flank._

_The lamb is still, dead in her arms._  
  
Zelda's eyes flash open, lying with arms and legs spread, hands wringing into the sheets. The dream peels away any remaining dregs of sleep from her, the lamb's dying image still bright in memory. She breathes in long and shivering gasps, a few strands of hair sticking close to her lips.

She rises, the blanket falling away from her to fall across the floor. Biting her fingernails, Zelda ventures out of her bedroom, into the corridor, to stand before a great bay window. The heavens are dark, with strange shots of purple and gray winding through the clouds. Though she looks as far as she can, not a single ray of moonlight shimmers within.

A coldness makes its home in her, crawling into her belly, its spindly arms reaching deep within. Zelda presses one hand into the glass, her breath leaving warm imprints upon its surface.

The dream means nothing, she tries to reason.

But -

“It's nothing,” she hisses, hand curling into a fist atop the glass. Her knuckles press hard against it, until her fingers ache from the pressure.

Zelda drags her hand down, hard enough that her skin makes shrill, halting squeaks against the glass.

But -

She sets her jaw, the fine muscles in her neck tensing, collarbones curved viciously out. Curiously, Zelda curls her lips away from her teeth, half expecting them to be pointed like _his,_ yet finding them to be the same as ever.

She wonders if its possible to become a demon simply by being in the presence of one, or if he can, somehow, bleed his darkness into her in the form of nightmares.

“ _But,”_ Zelda sighs, “it was just a dream.”

She nods in affirmation, as if doing so will assure her doubts.

Zelda turns away from the window, her shadow branching across the wall before her, its edges barely visible against the nightshade, following her down the hallway as she enters her bedroom.

Sitting at the edge of her bed, she retrieves her book from between the mattress, turning to a random page. It is blotted with age, and she is only able to read the first few sentences.

Breathing in, she reads.

_The Goddess Hylia created a holy blade to aid her Hero on his quest, and only he is able to wield the blade -_

The lamb's dying face appears in her head, and Zelda gasps, so startled the book crashes to the floor. She presses both hands against her forehead, bending over. With time, the image fades again, and Zelda stares fiercely at the book. It has fallen on its front, spine sticking up, a few pages crumpled beneath it.

Gingerly, Zelda picks it up, doing her best to smooth its wrinkled pages. Sighing, she closes it, placing it between the mattress.

The knife, which has fallen to the floor, gleams by her toes. Zelda picks it up, gazing at it intently.

_When? Where? How?_

She bites the inside of her cheek. She knows her chances are slim – so small, it may as well not exist – that she will be able to injure him enough to escape, somehow. There has to be an exit. There has to be a way out. She holds onto this hope, because hope is the only real thing in this castle, this place that is and is not, all at once.

“ _.....this is no fairytale, child.”_

Zelda grits her teeth in determination.

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow._

The cold air bites down her throat as she inhales, deeply, eyes closed. She stares at the blade a moment more, before slipping it beneath the mattress.

She falls back against her bed, golden hair fanning out, eyes open and staring at the hanging veils above her.

It was just a dream, she reasons, before closing her eyes once more.  
  


* * *

  
  
There are endless calculations, numbers and facts and figures, streaming steadily through her.  
  
Fi's world is a place full of light, empty spaces without corners nor walls. She floats, knees pulled to her chest, her billowing sleeves fluttering without a wind to move them. She can sense the world outside, and calculates that her Master has almost finished the Ancient Cistern's puzzles and traps.  
  
He has not called her forth for some time.  
  
 _There is an 86% chance that Master Link will encounter Ghirahim again._  
  
Fi lifts her head, gazing with sightless eyes toward the sky of this place. There is something else amongst the calculations streaming into her consciousness, somewhere between the estimations and data. Fi concentrates on it, this thing without name, shorn at the edges of her memories.  
  
It vanishes completely.  
  
She lowers her head once again, goes back to calculating -  
  
 _There is a 50% chance that Ghirahim will challenge Master Link to a fight._  
  
 _"......And is that not what you want, Fi? To realize your true talents?"_  
  
Fi uncurls swiftly, searching for the voice which has disrupted her thoughts; she is alone. She searches the data in her mind, tomes and tomes of information, but no such question has ever been asked of her. Yet there is no mistaking it, her data is not incorrect: that voice was not imagined.

There is an odd sensation trickling up her jewel-slick skin, something which humans call _déjà vu._ _It is not exact, as Fi is certain she is unable to experience such a feeling, being not-human, a thing made from magic –_

_“……Talent is irrelevant. Feelings are irrelevant. We are incapable of feeling.”_

She curls up again, pushing the unwelcome incursion of these words that are not hers away, back into the recesses of her calculations.

* * *

 

Link throws his head back, downing the last of his healing potion.

Wiping his mouth, he puts the bottle back into his pouch, inhaling deeply through his nose. He stands in the final chamber of the Ancient Cistern, having fought his way through its watery tunnels and hellish caverns.

Before him beckons a stairwell, to which surely leads another monster, another hellion of magic or malice, which he will have to vanquish, like so many before it.

Raising one hand to the hilt of his sword, Link feels Fi's aura warm his fingertips, and she floods him with invigoration.

Gritting his teeth, Link ventures up the staircase, each step leading him closer and deeper to the darkness, until at last he emerges into a room.

Taking his hand away from his sword was a stupid move, Link thinks in hindsight.

He misses a kick to his head by barely a second, so close he can feel the force of it rip through his hair.

Link hurls himself to the side, shoulder slamming painfully into a wall, stumbling back from another kick aimed at his gut. Twisting, Link backflips away, knowing at once who has made him their target; there is no mistaking the burn of _that_ magic against his skin.

His sword is out and shining, though Link does not remember unsheathing it, and parries the swinging black blade, sparks erupting from where the metal meets.

Laughter fulls the dim chamber.

“Still a novice, I'm afraid! That sword of yours may be different, but your skill in wielding her is still rough, at best!”

Link glares as Ghirahim comes into being, a flurry of white and red diamonds, a substantial length away from him.

The Demon Lord makes a _tsking_ sound with his tongue. “If only I were her Master, I could bring about her true capacity. In your hands, she is no more than a plaything.”

Link bares his teeth. “She would never allow you to wield her.”

(He wants to run, run _anywhere,_ because like the gods forsaken hell is he going to let that happen, because he's already lost someone else, but there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide).

Ghirahim rakes the end of his sword into the ground, one hand placed against his hip in an oddly brazen way. He tips his head up, smirking. “You think so? It seems she has been detaining information from you, Hero. Such a shame, when you cannot even rely on your companion to be truthful.”

Link lunges, driving his sword forward, meeting nothing, before being thrown forward as Ghirahim kicks him furiously across his back.

Link slams down hard on hands and knees, the skin of his knuckles peeling away, trousers ripping from knee to shin.

He stumbles up, whirling around to catch Ghirahim's sword, cross-guards locking. They're so close to one another that their reflections are thrown back into their respective swords, face to face.

Ghirahim licks the entire length of his tongue down the edge of his own sword, and Link shudders with disgust.

He takes that moment to sweep one leg beneath Link's feet, and the boy topples to the ground, elbows smashing into the stone. There is no time to think, before Ghirahim cracks a fist against his cheekbone, then again to the other, laughing the entire time, drawing his sword back -

Link thrusts forward, the killing-edge of his sword slicing into the Demon's hip, and he grunts in pain, stopping for just a moment.

Link wastes no chance to stumble upright, cheek throbbing painfully, blotched red and blue. His bottom lip is swollen, bleeding, from where he has accidentally bit into it.

The Demon Lord is entirely unfazed. “Oh,” he sighs mournfully, “I thought you could do better than that. Had you aimed just a little better, you may have even impaled me!”

Link wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. “You can't be here just to challenge me again.”

“You have _impeccable_ powers of deduction, little Hero. I have little time to fight you, but I can spare a few moments. Humor me, will you?”

And their blades crash together again, swinging, hissing, meeting with bone-shuddering violence.

Ghirahim draws himself close, cross-guards linked once more, blades shuddering. His smile is so wide and strange and wicked it sends icy dread up Link's arms.

“I'll tell you a secret, boy,” the demon breathes, each word a slow, precise growl.

Link's face drains of color, jaw slackening when the Demon leans in, so close he can feel his icy breath, _so close_ , that when he speaks again, their breath mingles intimately.

“Zelda no longer thinks you can save her, _Heerrrooo_ ,” he hisses wickedly, serpent-smiling, “as you dawdle here playing catspaw to the Goddesses, she fades away each passing moment, and she'll be mine soon.”

And he laughs in Link's face, letting him wrench away, before they meet blades once more.

Link's entire body shudders, jaw clenched, blue eyes wide and flashing-fierce. “She wouldn't give up so easily. You're lying.”

 _That_ smile is back. “Oh? What makes you so certain?”

Link jabs, dodging a killing-swing, neither able to land a blow to the other. There, an opening in his guard, just between shoulder and chest -

Link takes the hilt of his sword in both fists, screaming as he swings his entire weight into a slice, but he's too slow, and Ghirahim disappears.

The Hero whirls around, looking up as Ghirahim re-materializes atop a metal figure in the center of the chamber, balanced on the ends of his toes. Ghirahim gives him a grand, sweeping bow, bent so low his head nearly brushes his feet.

“While it pains me to leave so suddenly, I am afraid I have no more time to toy with you. Thank you, Hero, for being so unfailingly entertaining. I must get back to my duties. Keep the spirit maiden in your thoughts, for she is _certainly_ in mine.”

Link almost thinks his fight is over, but as Ghirahim disappears once more, the room alights, and the previously slumbering monster within it comes to life.

Link thinks of _her,_ and it alone is enough. He fights again.


	9. Myth

 

“Where no hope is left, is left no fear.” – John Milton.

* * *

 

Silently, she counts.

_One, two, three._

One – she stands before the mirror.

Two – she reaches behind her neck.

Three – she lets the blade fall into her palm, glinting edge out.

Zelda sets her jaw, gazing at her reflection, a doppelganger from another world, unreal. In the mirror she envisions her plan coming to fruition, vanquishing this evil which steals her shadows. She imagines the sunlight on her face, grass beneath her feet, clouds – and not an endless white ceiling – thrown overhead.

She imagines driving the blade into him, his blood the blackest of inks bubbling up from the wound, falling to his knees before her – _and how undignified death makes him –_ then, she is free.

But these are only fantasies.

Zelda tears a strip of her gown away, taking her hair and tying it back. Into this ribbon she secures the knife, its blade hidden against her nape, a frozen kiss of promise. If she were not under these circumstances, Zelda would think that she looks rather pretty, a few strands of hair framing her cheeks, loosened from their ribbon.  
  
 _". . .How will I know who the Hero is?"_

She gasps. The voice seems to come from within the mirror itself, however impossible that is. Fearfully, Zelda presses a finger against the glass, finding it to be as solid as ever, and not echoing with phantom-voices she can swear she has heard, once. The face which stares back at her is her own.  
  
 _". . .You will know."_

The words feel like her own, though Zelda has never spoken them.

The reflection inside her mirror is warped. If she looks hard enough, Zelda can almost see him pressing through the glass, stark white face alight with bloodlust. He's everywhere to her now, beneath her eyelids and slithering against her skin, the silence of nightfall outside.

He is in everything. She is not certain how, but the Demon haunts her without being dead, as surely as any ghost.

“Ghosts can be killed again,” and she no longer knows whose voice speaks; the reflection, or herself.

 

* * *

 

She does anything to occupy herself.

Wandering the halls have proven to be a useless endeavor. She has made and re-made her bed, tucking the wrinkles away, fluffing the pillows, though doing so provides no more comfort than if they had been flat. She places the candles on her vanity in different order. She would clean if dust accumulated, yet not a spot appears.

During the night, she counts the stars. During the day, she reads.

Zelda sits at the edge of her bed, bare feet to the floor, book spread in her lap. She has read this passage many times.

_The Goddess Din, patron of desire, strength and war, who wrought the earth with fire, favors those of ambition._

  
_The Goddess Nayru, patron of thought, pride and water, who sown the seeds of law with magic, favors those of foresight._  
  
 _The Goddess Farore, patron of spirit, bravery and nobility, who planted the teeth of dragons to cultivate life, favors those of conviction._  
  
The Goddess Hylia, patron of time, death and birth, who guarded the Golden Power, favors those of mercy.

The daylight through her window creates strips of darkness along the page, reminding her of the shadow a cage makes. Then, another shadow joins it, blurring the words. She looks up and sees -

A bouquet of eyes – _no, not eyes_ – flowers, muted blue, dark veins running through the flesh, and a black center much like a pupil. She swears they dilate when the sunlight shines along them.

They are dropped unceremoniously into her lap.

“I thought they might give this room some brightness.”

Zelda does not touch the flowers, looking up to Ghirahim standing beside her, the red cloak gone, sun glinting from his jewelry. His skin is paler in the light, the cloak's absence draining of his face any color it has.

She bites the inside of her cheek. “I don't like flowers."

His brow rises. “Nonsense! All human women like flowers. How strange it is, to give them flowers, of all things – they will only wilt. In truth, I only brought these to you because they reminded me of your eyes.”

He _changes,_ face taking on that stark bloodlust she imagined in her mirror -

“Though, I doubt yours would look so lovely if I plucked them out of your head.”

She tries not to shudder, fails, the bottom falling out of her stomach and somewhere near her toes. The flowers feel heavy in her lap. Zelda looks away to the blank wall, his shadow combining with her own.

“Oh, don't be like that,” he says, fingers petting beneath her chin, lighting her with webs of chill. “I meant it as a compliment.”

Those fingers jerk her head up, grasped painfully along her jaw, and his words are full of the worst kind of sweetness, each sliding sibilancy. “The least you could say is 'thank you, Lord Ghirahim.' I go out of my way to cheer you up, using this silly human tradition of giving flowers, when I needn't in the first place. Go on, then.”

Zelda's lips tremble.

_Stop._

The grip he has on her jaw burns as if his very skin is on fire.

_Stop._

Her throat dries. “Thank you, Lord Ghirahim.”

His hand falls away at last. Ghirahim nods approvingly, running the edge of his tongue along his bottom teeth. “There we are! For that, I'm going to tell you something that will surely put a smile on that lovely face!”

Zelda grasps both hands to keep herself from jumping up. “Link?”

“Mmm-hmm. How clever you are, sweet. You'll be happy to know that I left him alive – this time – and how entertaining he was! He has improved marginally. Who knows, he may even gain enough skill to scratch me one day.”

Zelda keeps her hopes reigned, flooding her mind of the image of Link – _I have to concentrate_ – breathing in.

“You can't keep me here forever. He'll find where I am. It may not be soon, but he will,” she smirks now, “he's more resourceful than you give him credit for.”

Ghirahim curls his upper lip. “Hmph. His resourcefulness has no meaning if he dies while trying to find you. He will have to vanquish me first, and I am afraid, my dearest little Hylia, that such a task is impossible for him.”

He bends to retrieve a flower, and with all the grace of any sweetheart, tucks it behind her ear. Zelda remains still, daring not even to breathe and -

“Be careful in trust. You never know when someone may just pluck your eyes out for it. Trust blinds you, Skychild. It spills over those pretty blue eyes of yours.”

He does not touch her or breathe into her ear or even smile. He rises, and leaves her bedroom, door shutting behind him.

Only after he leaves does Zelda remember the knife, pressed to her nape, a cold promise she has broken.

 

* * *

 

“Hold out your sword, Master Link.”

Link is blinded by the fire that burns across her; it speaks of magic and ruin, transforming her into a brilliant glow of emerald. He raises the sword with a quivering arm, heart leaping as Fi flies toward him, into the blade itself, afire with the same light that had been on her.

The magic surges into and through him, a magic so powerful he can feel it pouring into each follicle of his hair. Before his eyes, the blade morphs, growing in length, the guard flaring out like twin wings. Link gives it an experimental swing, before sheathing it once again.

Koloktos has been destroyed. Link can still feel the sting of its saber across his back where the monster had slashed, the blood caking his tunic.  He remembers dodging, leaping, rolling and twisting away from its six arms, each coming closer to killing him. If Link had to compare the metal colossus to one thing, it would be a whirlwind, only this whirlwind had wielded blades and not air.

_“Zelda no longer thinks you can save her, Heerrrooo –”_

Link flings the thoughts away, gritting his teeth.

No, he will not allow himself to think of it, the possibility that that lie may be true –

_If it is? Does it mean so much?_

Link lingers on his own thoughts, breathing in the darkness around him.

_Trust means everything._

Fi's voice echoes as she speaks to him from the blade.

“Master, Farore's flame has purified the blade, and thus, myself. You will now be able to do more damage to your enemies, and I can now communicate with you from within the sword.”

Link blinks. The sensation of her voice vibrating across his skull is a strange, but not unpleasant one. “I'll keep it in mind, Fi.”

The vibration grows softer. “Yes, Master Link. Do you require anything of me?”

Link stares at where the flame had once been, its heat lingering over the walls even now. Without it, the room he stands in is nearly the blackness of pitch. It muffles his words.

“Did it hurt, Fi? The fire, I mean. Can you even feel pain?”

He brushes his hand against the blade's hilt, _foolish, though, what meaning would that have to a blade?_ And lowers his hand.

“No, Master. I am unable to feel pain. I lack the ability to feel any sensation at all. You need not worry yourself.”

Her words hurt him. He doesn't know why, only they do, they strike him with a sudden burst, straight in his chest.

“I'm sorry.”

_Why apologize?_

He begins to trek back through the darkness, when her voice rings in his head again, lulling as it has ever been.

“It is best this way, Master. I am only a sword. I advise that you think of me as a tool, for that is what I am.”

The pain, again. Link nods against it. He straightens, setting his jaw. “Of course. That's all I needed, Fi.”

Fi is silent through the rest of the trek back.

 

* * *

 

She’s tumbling down, down a hill of grass which slips between her toes -

She’s running so quickly her hair flies behind her, a thick yellow streak, the grass slipping between her toes -

She’s free. She’s _freefreefree_ , of all the darkness and featureless walls like nothing, free of the stale bitter air, and most of all, she’s free of him –

_Stop._

Zelda opens her eyes. Her vision slowly comes to focus, first blue edges with no shape, before the blue solidifies into the flowers, which she has left upon her bed. Already their petals have begun to shrivel, curling in on themselves like edges of burnt paper.

“They’re anemones,” she remembers because she had been taught about flora at the Knight Academy, when all she ever wanted to learn was about swords. They have some strange meaning, she knows, though the tale is beyond recollection.

He will be here at any moment, just like every night, so she can play obedient and eat, though she has no appetite. He’ll be here at any moment, just like every night, to stain her dreams with nightmares.

She hopes it will be the last.

“Surely I must not repeat myself. I said, ‘I’m waiting!’”

Zelda startles, knocking the vanity chair to one side. This voice was not imagined. She opens the heavy doors, beyond which Ghirahim stands beneath a beam of moonlight, arms crossed. The cloak remains gone, baring his shoulders and arms. She has never noticed how much taller he is until she joins his side; she would not be able to reach his neck even if she stood on tip-toe.

They begin to walk down the hall, lit only by the moon.

He makes no move toward her, not even looking down to her as he speaks. “I see you have removed the flower from your hair. How rude. I could have snapped your neck, but instead I had the graciousness to give you a flower, and you don’t even keep it.”

Zelda says nothing. She watches their joined shadows move across the wall.

The noise of dissatisfaction he makes echoes. “Not talking tonight? I expected you to say _something._ Where has that annoyingly sharp tongue gone to tonight, I wonder.” He chuckles. “I wonder indeed.”

Zelda imagines the moonlight as the warmth of sun, the white walls as clouds. Her heart hammers, pushing adrenaline into her veins, flushing her cheeks. One part of her says _run_ , and the other says _fight._

_I can do this._

She imagines the man by her side is Link, who talks pleasantly and smiles without fangs, who does not carry a threat in every sweet word. She imagines sleeping in her own bed, waking to the blue sky.

_I can do this._

She’s tumbling down, down a hill of grass which slips between her toes –

-and into Link’s embrace, his tunic stained with the black blood of a demon, alive and well –

_I can do this._

Zelda stops walking, gazing at their joined shadows on the wall, his so much larger than her own.

“The flowers are anemones.”

The shadow-Ghirahim tilts his head. “What?”

_One._

Zelda trembles. “The flowers you gave me are anemones. Do you know the meaning of them?”

His voice grows rough with irritation. “I was not aware they had one.”

She fights the blood rushing into her ears, thickening her tongue.

_Two._

“Yes. Everything has meaning. Anemone was the name of a beautiful fairy who fell in love with the God of Wind. The God’s lover grew jealous of Anemone, and banished her. The God of Wind begged Nayru, the Goddess of Wisdom, to instead transform Anemone into a flower, and Nayru did so.”

Ghirahim is silent, then:

“That is absolute nonsense. Your human myths mean nothing to me. You –”

_Three._

Zelda whirls, a circle of blue and gold, blade glaring moonlight from her hand, as she plunges it into his chest as far as it will go –

Blood the color of night _bubbles_ from the wound, wetting his entire front, and his hands rise to his chest –

She stumbles back against the wall, his form blurred by silver moonlight, shadow falling across her face, pale with hope –

Ghirahim does not fall or tremble or gasp in pain.  
  
He smiles -  
  
-and she can't breath, the walls choking inward-  
  
He smiles, tearing the blade from his flesh, a raw gritty noise, turning its edge upon her -  
  
Zelda screams and -


	10. Doppelganger

“Every life is a march from innocence, through temptation, to virtue or vice.”- Lyman Abbott

* * *

  
  
_He smiles -_

_-and she can't breathe, the walls choking inward -_

_He smiles, tearing the blade from his flesh, a raw gritty noise, turning its edge upon her -_

_Zelda screams and -_

She wakes.

It feels as if someone has laid burning coals on her bed, her skin is so feverish. Zelda finds herself in her bedroom, the light of dawn pushing beneath her eyelids. Her hair falls in furious tangles down her back, a few strands sticking to her neck.

- _his hair shines whiter than moonlight as she falls before him, helpless -_

Zelda groans, holding her head. There is no longer blood upon her clothes, the copper-sour taste of fear gone from her lips. As if it was all a dream -

- _she feels him take her in his arms, his face blurred with the dregs of unconsciousness. Where her head meets his chest, she can hear no heartbeat._

“ _Silly thing. I must applaud your bravery, however useless.”_

 _-_ she failed.

_Her head feels like cottonfluff, arms and legs flooded with ice so cold it burns. She watches him through her eyelashes, the darkness deepening as he carries her farther down the hall._

_He's taking her to her bedroom – her bedroom! Zelda struggles to regain control, but her body remains unresponsive to her fear._

_She's laid against the bed, and – ‘oh Goddess, what will he do?’ Ghirahim leans forward to brush her bangs aside, her skin burning where he touches it._

_His voice bleaches the walls of her mind._

“ _There is only one weapon in the whole universe than can harm me, sweet bluebird. You can no more destroy me than I can freeze time. Keep that in mind. I will not be so forgiving should you try again.”_

_He vanishes into darkness._

Zelda bites the insides of her cheeks, bites until blood pours warm and bitter onto her tongue. She stumbles, stiff-legged, out of bed, into the washroom. There is a grand, steel bathtub, large enough to spread her limbs in, and deep enough to submerge her entire body. The bathwater is perpetually warm, and never dirties no matter how many times she washes. It's only another trick, to fool her into believing this cage has no bars.

She plunges into the water, clothes and all, submerging her entire body beneath its surface.

She _failed._

Zelda opens her eyes.

There is no distinguishable end to the ceiling, her breath escaping as useless bubbles in the water. Around her face swirls her own golden hair, glowing with sunlight. The water surges into her dress, suspending it up and away from her body.

Time freezes, just long enough for her to close her eyes.

_She’s tumbling down, down a hill of grass which slips between her toes -_

_-and into Link's embrace, his tunic stained with the black blood of a demon, alive and well –_

Zelda emerges, choking, throwing both arms over one side of the tub. Water drips into her eyes and mouth, sopping locks of hair trailing to the floor. She breathes deeply, coughing at intervals, until the fog clears from her head.

Rising from the tub, she claws out of her dress, letting it fall with a wet squelch to the floor. Her footprints leave small puddles on her bedroom floor, as she stands before the vanity mirror, naked and dripping.

Again, someone speaks from within its depths.

“ _. . .I do not know. If my plans fail, we leave our fate to greater hands. My power can only stretch so far.”_

Zelda shudders, gazing harder into her reflection. The voice which speaks now is different, familiar in a strange way.

“ _. . .Understood, Your Grace. May the Goddesses strike me down should I fail you.”_

Something within her _explodes,_ into a thousand brilliant pieces, thunderous pain shooting into her head. Zelda crashes to the floor, kneecaps slamming into the tile, bent over. There is too much pain for her to even breathe, she’ll simply die if it continues -

The pain stops.

Zelda kneels on the floor, shaking and sobbing, raking her fingernails down her arms. She spits her hair from her lips, tearing her bangs away from her forehead with one hand. She remembers his gloved fingers brushing her hair away only hours ago, his skin no longer cold, but fiery hot like coals.

_Or was it my own?_

She shakes the thought away. Carefully, she stands again to face the mirror. It no longer echoes with voices, finding within it the same reflection, silent. Her skin is unmarked from his hands, no bruises or burns from where his body touched hers as he carried her. She had heard, once, that the touch of a demon will linger, for ages and ages.

Zelda places her palm against the mirror. Her doppelganger smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

Skyloft remains unchanged.

Link takes comfort in it, knowing he has at least _one_ place to trust, where he can trust nothing else. The houses are the same, unchanged as the first day he was born. He wanders the familiar nooks, around beaten trails worn by many feet.

He remembers chasing Zelda along these same paths, two children playing games to pass the time. She had fallen and skinned her knees, once, neither crying nor complaining, so unlike himself. As a child, _Link_ was the one who cried at such things, and it was Zelda who comforted him, more than anyone.

Link chuckles to himself. He stops before the training hall, filled with shouts and the clang of swords. He misses the sound of _her_ voice in the din, cheering for him on the sidelines, sometimes sparring against him herself.

No matter ardently he tries to remember, he finds Zelda’s image blotting away, as distant to him as the sky.

Link looks to the dirt, frowning so deeply it creates winkles at the edges of his mouth.

“Enough of this.”

Spinning on his heels, he trudges away from the Academy, past the houses and noise, to kneel at the bank of a pond at the edge of Skyloft. The spring water tastes, feels and smells the same – it smells like the sky looks, and tastes even better. Link splashes it onto his face, the jolt of coldness clearing his mind.

Cupping the water in his hands, he stares into it, past his own reflection.

He's already forgetting her, and that fills him with more fright than anything he's seen or felt. It's a brumal frost stuck someplace between his heart and breastbone, hissing, this fear that he'll someday forget her.

Or, worse, _lose_ her.

Another reflection joins his in the water. Turning back, Link cranes his neck as far as it will go, to gaze up at Gaepora, standing behind him. The old man grins.

“Glad to see you back, Link. I hope you don’t mind my interruption.”

The boy shakes water from his fingers, returning an uneasy smile. “No, of course not.”

Gaepora laughs a belly-deep rumble, coming to sit beside him on the grass. “Wonderful. It’s been a while since we last talked.”

Link has to tilt his head upwards to gaze at the man’s face, aged but not weary. There is less of a spark in his eyes since all _this_ began, but Link finds reassurance in it nonetheless.

“Headmaster Gaepora, I --”

Gaepora jabs his elbow into Link’s arm. “None of that. I didn’t come here to hear your apologies, you have none to make. Do something else for me, will you?”

Link nods without hesitation.

Gaepora points one thick finger up. “Look to the sky for a moment.”

Link raises his head toward the sunlight, the same sun that shone yesterday, the day before that, the moment he opened his eyes as a newborn. Constant, glowing with a light so saturated it burns everything yellow-orange.

“We should all be more like the sun, don't you think?”

Link cranes his head in question.

“Ah,” Gaepora pats his gut, “I meant to say that we should all be as fearless as the sun. Think of it, Link; the sun has no hesitance about the day before it. It rises even if the events ahead of it seem daunting. What would we do without it, boy? No crops, no warmth.”

Link blinks, nods, shuffles his feet in the dirt. He knows the allusion Gaepora makes. He looks to the side, out across the sky spanning its great arms all around them.

He breathes in, lips wanting to form words, terrible words of confession not even his mind will utter.

Gaepora thumps one large hand against Link’s shoulder. The boy looks up, startled and a little guilty. His smile is only halfway-there.

“I won't ask what has happened, Link. You've enough on your mind as it is. This self-doubt of yours doesn't suit you.”

Link swallows, licks his lips, dipping his head in slow agreement. The wind carries the laughter of someone from across the water.

A frown pulls at Link’s lips. He's almost angry at them for it, their ability to laugh at such times, but he's thankful more than angry – that laughter can still exist, even if _he_ doesn't feel it.

Groaning slightly, Gaepora stands, crimson robes waving in the breeze. He points one thick finger toward the sky, and Link follows the line up, up, past the clouds and the blue, then finally to the sun, radiant.

When he looks down again, Gaepora is gone. Link smiles.

_“. . .Take her if you wish, Skychild! But know that she will always belong to me. Did I not tell you she would change?”_

Link leaps to his feet, ready to draw his sword at – nothing.

Cautiously, he looks around, but the voice has come from nowhere. His brow furrows. His hand comes to rest at his side once more.

_“. . . think that. She may have changed, but she will never be yours. I won’t allow it. . .”_

“No matter what,” Link mumbles. He blinks, startled.

_What in Hylia’s name…?_

He sits back down, holding his head in one hand. Closing his eyes, he breathes deep, letting the springwater air cool his face.

“Master Link, are you well?”

The sensation of Fi’s voice _trickling_ into his skull makes him squirm, oddly ticklish.

His tongue is dry like sand, and moves thickly in his mouth. Link swallows with effort.

“I don’t know, Fi. I guess I should lie down. I’m probably just tired. Thank – I, well. Yes, I’m probably just tired.”

Her voice remains unchanged.

“Is there anything you need of me? I suggest you drink a health potion as soon as you acquire one.”

Link opens his eyes to the burning sunlight, reflected off the water.

“No, that’s all.”

Above him, the sun shines, as bright as ever.

 

* * *

 

 

Ghirahim almost pities her.

Being what he is, however, such an emotion is impossible.

He presides, once again, in the void of darkness, alone. Through a rip in its fabric he watches her. The dress she wears is still damp, faded from lovely blue to dull white. Her head is bent over a book, the same one she has undoubtedly read cover to cover by now.  He finds it pitiful, but he watches her nonetheless.

She is nothing like him. None of _them_ are.

Casually, he examines one bare hand, the palm free of calluses, fingernails trimmed to just the right length. Ghirahim smiles to himself; perfect, as always. No flaws or blemishes, nothing to mark him as _human._

He looks back to Zelda, small and frail and so very flawed. It would take him more effort to blink than to kill her; strangle her in her sleep, or to drown her in the bathtub.

But he needs her. She is too important to waste on a thrill, a passing moment of entertainment.

Ghirahim licks his lips in a contemplative way. He imagines her wreathed in a gown of midnight, her innocence gone, soul to do with as he pleased.

Nothing would satisfy him more, than to take this purity of hers and quash it, send her soul to the depths of hell, to burn this world to the ground.

Ghirahim clenches his jaw so hard it creaks, an electric rush of anger fizzling up his arms.

“Damn that Sheikah witch for botching my magic! The things I would be doing to you!”

Tossing his head, he laughs gleefully. “She will be so very disappointed when it comes back, and I take Zelda as my own to sacrifice. My Master need not wait much longer, nor myself.”

Closing his eyes, Ghirahim pictures it in his mind; Zelda lifeless in his arms, her flaxen hair tangled in his fingers. By his feet Link lies sprawled, bloodied and broken, no longer a hindrance.

He breathes in the darkness, letting its murk wash into his lungs. Exhaling, Ghirahim opens his eyes, gazing down at Zelda once more.

“How wonderful it is, to have my plans fall into place. The brunt of my magic is slowly returning. As powerful as that Sheikah’s spell was, mine is greater still.”

Zelda looks up from the book just then, casting her gaze around the room, as if she has heard him speak. From this angle he can clearly see the slope of her nape, her hair pushed over one shoulder – and what a lovely neck she has, just the right size to wrap his hands around it – Ghirahim shudders.

Slowly, she goes back to reading, the afternoon light shining past her and onto the withered flowers on the vanity.

He watches her trace the page with a few fingers, before closing it once more. She looks somewhere beyond his field of vision, the sunlight illuminating her face, and she looks more a Goddess now than he has ever seen her.

“Soon enough,” Ghirahim smiles.

He watches. He watches.

 

* * *

 

 

Link screams in pain as a Bokoblin slices his shoulder with its blade, blood wetting the ground.

He ducks and rolls to the side, whirling upwards to rend his sword into the creature’s belly. Its foul blood splashes his wrists and neck, turning the collar of his tunic a muddy green. Link twists to avoid another Bokoblin, parrying violently.

Dodge, counter, parry, stroke – he kills the other in one swift strike.

Link has found himself to be very good at killing things, now.

He hates it.

Eldin volcano looms up, an earthen giant bleeding lava. The heat of the air has caused Link to sweat through his tunic, dampening his hair. It does nothing to mask the smell of sacred magic on his clothing, hours after he has left the Silent Realm.

Wincing, Link retrieves a potion from the pouch at his waist, downing the concoction in one swallow. Pulling up the sleeve of his tunic, he watches his skin weft together again, the pain vanishing.

Casting one last glance to the dead Bokoblin’s at his feet, Link proceeds up the trail, leading him deeper into the volcano.

Fi speaks to him from deep within the blade.

“Master Link, do not feel remorse for those creatures. Had you not killed them, they would have surely killed you. They are nothing but servants to Lord Ghirahim. There is a less than one-percent chance they would have spared you.”

Link stops, staring blankly ahead.

“Is that how all monsters are, Fi? Merciless creatures?”

Fi emerges from the sword, somersaulting gracefully in midair. From her springs the smell of fresh water. Link breathes deeply of it, nodding for her to continue.

“I have no definite answer to your question. However, I can surmise that your evaluation of them is correct. Creatures like Bokoblins and Lord Ghirahim exist only to destroy, Master Link.”

Link feels something boiling red surge within him – something like anger, something he is not used to feeling – his voice is heavy in his own ears.

“But _why?”_

Fi tilts her head.

“I cannot answer that question for you. I apologize. Master Link, I am not human, so I therefore am unable to…contemplate such matters. I am a weapon, nothing more.”

Link grits his teeth, jerking his head away. “Right. That’s all I wanted.”

Wordlessly, she disappears into the sword again.

Alone, Link treks farther up the trail, feeling that he is somehow being pulled along by puppet strings, with each step he takes.


	11. Soothsaying

 

“Control your own destiny, or someone else will.” - Jack Welch

* * *

 

Ghirahim can barely contain his excitement.

It trembles into his joints, lighting color on his otherwise pallid cheeks. His excitement is so great that it lends his hands an uncharacteristic shudder, settling as a deep, warm throb in his belly. Ghirahim has never recalled such a feeling of elation, not in his many-thousand years of existing.

He gazes, wide-eyed, at the ancient etchings upon the walls, the stones themselves seemingly oscillating with power. Despite their age, the words and drawings are pristine, as crisp as if they have just been carved into the rock.

The Fire Sanctuary’s many locks and tumblers have proven to be of little resistance to his magic; Ghirahim stands in the final room of the Sanctuary, the room which has guarded this valuable secret.

There is a second Gate of Time.

The stone floor is warm beneath his feet, as he paces excitedly around the large, circular room, shaking with equal parts agitation and enthusiasm. Nearby, he can sense _that boy’s_ energy, drawing ever closer; they will surely fight, as they have fought many times before – always coming together, inevitably in battle, destined to spill one another’s blood.

He is bound to Zelda in a different way, a way Ghirahim cannot explain. They are all bound, somehow, by a red string of fate, pulling them closer and closer with each meeting.

Ghirahim stops before the picture of a great bird, its wings outstretched in flight, soaring, uninhibited, to an invisible point on the horizon. He gazes at it with an intensity that would rust iron, pressing the flat of one palm against it. Now, he trembles with wrath.

“I will sever these threads, one way or another.”

 

* * *

 

Link is certain of three things.

One, that Ghirahim is quite a bit more insane than he first realized.

Two, that he is, perhaps, the vainest creature to ever exist.

Lastly, because of these things, he is far more dangerous than Link has anticipated.

It feels as though a weight has been pressing down upon his chest, becoming heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Although the Fireshield earrings have taken the brunt of the heat’s anger, sweat still soaks through Link’s green tunic, rolling down his neck in slick streams.

The heat is the least of his worries.

With barely enough strength to do so, Link throws his sword above his head, blocking Ghirahim’s black, shining blade from smashing into his skull – and dodges the second with little space to spare. He rolls clumsily away, back slamming against a wall, and Ghirahim paces, ever so casually, nearer.

The demon cackles with a madness that shakes through Link’s bones. In both hands Ghirahim clutches twin rapiers, their blackness matching his bare arms. The blackness has splintered across his face and chest like cracks through porcelain. Link knows by only looking that, somehow, the demon has metamorphosed his limbs into solid metal, and he has no desire to test their strength.

“What is it, Skychild? You seemed so resolute in our last battle; has the sight of my new form stolen your fervor?”

Ghirahim grinds the tips of his blades into the stone floor, sparks erupting in their wake. Though lunacy still lingers upon his face, his expression has grown firm with resolution, dark eyes narrowed, thin white lips parted just so. Ghirahim does not pause, even when a silvery strand of his hair drifts across his gaze.

Link rises from the wall, breathing hard, clutching his sword so tightly his knuckles bleach white.

There is one, solitary moment of pause –

Link pivots into a whirl, launching himself up off the floor, sword thrown behind his head, swinging it down upon Ghirahim – but his blade crashes messily into the demon’s own swords.

Ghirahim drives Link backwards, neither laughing nor smiling, that hard, resolute look stilling his face. Link twists his arms to the side, unlocking their blades for a mere moment, before they slam together again with a metallic sting.

They stand, locked together at the guards of their blades, each trying to shove the other back, with little result.

Though he shakes with effort, Link finds enough breath to speak, smirking. “I think you looked better the other way, at least then you didn’t look diseased.”

Ghirahim’s face slacks with rage for an instant; just long enough for Link knee him in the gut and back-flip away –

-but Ghirahim is faster, and reappears behind him just as he lands, with no time to dodge –

Link sees everything in slow-motion; the walls whirling around him as he tries to twist away, the carvings blurring together, and Ghirahim, struck in sharp contrast, raising his sword to the sky, the cutting edge gleaming savagely –

Everything hurdles back into motion.

Link screams as Ghirahim’s blade tears open a gash in his back, grazing past flesh and into muscle, blood splashing down his tunic. Stumbling, Link falls to his hands and knees, sword sliding uselessly from his grip.

Through a nauseating rush of pain, he can hear the demon laughing again, from everywhere at once.

He reappears just inches away from Link’s hands, the tips of his shoes close enough to touch.

Ghirahim kicks him in the face.

There is the crunch of bone, and Link knows that his nose is broken, the leaden taste of blood filling his mouth. He lands painfully on his injured back, curled up as if with a stomach wound, blinking past shooting stars in his eyes.

He can hear footsteps slowly approaching, the lazy _tap tap tap_ of Ghirahim’s shoes on the stone. Link turns his head to the ceiling, breathing shakily through gritted teeth, vision blurring black and white and red around the edges. Through the murk, he sees the demon standing above him, silvery hair falling away from his splintered face, eyes smoldering crimson.

Link’s nostrils burn with the stink of dark magic, which now wafts as invisible but no less potent streams off his opponent, so strong it nearly blinds him.

Then, terribly, Ghirahim kneels before him, balanced easily on his toes, elbows resting against his knees, rapiers still clutched in his hands.

Link grows completely still.

“Poor little Skychild,” Ghirahim coos, “outmatched and outwitted as always. You may have won our last battle, but you will not be so lucky today.”

He grins, drawing the flat of his sword against his mouth, wetting it with blood. A few drops of it land upon Link’s cheek.

Link spits his own tooth onto the floor, lifting his head to gaze blearily into Ghirahim’s pale face.

“You’re wrong,” he croaks.

The demon tilts his head, hair falling away from his face, splintered with ebony. There is no amusement in his voice. “What -”

There is an explosion of impossible blue light, so intense it bleeds the walls of their color, fizzling into the back of Link’s eyelids.

Someone is screaming, louder than Link has ever heard, with such shrillness and agony it makes his ears ache – when the light fades, he sees Ghirahim, backed into a wall, form alight with blue electricity.

Link rises painfully to his feet, limping hastily to retrieve his sword. It glows with the same blue light which has injured Ghirahim. As his fingers graze the hilt, Fi’s voice drifts weakly into his mind.

“Master Link, I have successfully fired a blast of energy from within the blade, and temporarily stunned Ghirahim. However, this has significantly weakened me. I will not be able to communicate with you for some time. You must defeat Ghirahim without my aid.”

Wide-eyed, Link gazes disbelievingly at the sword clutched in his hand. _How_ is not important, he knows. He is covered in sweat, with blood crusting his tunic to his back, whole body alight with pain.

Link ignores it, gazing steadily ahead, sword clutched in both hands.

Slowly, the magic disappears from Ghirahim’s body. Gone is the fixed concentration from before, now his eyes are dilated with rage, pale lips quivering. Groaning, he rights himself, raising one hand to snap his fingers, materializing a circle of daggers.

Link has seen this before – he knocks three of them away as they fly toward him, dodging one, the last nicking the shoulder of his tunic. Unfazed, he stands, the end of his blade pointed steadily forward.

Ghirahim snarls, baring his pointed teeth, nostrils flaring; Link can practically _see_ the blood boiling in his veins.

Ghirahim bellows at him, words losing their demonic lilt; his voice is more murderous and desperate than Link has ever heard it.

“Damn you, you petulant whelp! How dare you ridicule me…I _will_ break the string which binds us together… _I_ control my destiny!”

Ghirahim appears before him suddenly, swinging both blades down with a growl of rage, and Link knocks them back, jabbing forward, opening a sickly black wound on Ghirahim’s outer thigh.

This does nothing, and with renewed intensity Ghirahim swings again, once, twice, three times, each move becoming hastier – Link parries, lands another blow, a deeper laceration across his belly, splitting his pale flesh. From the wound boils more dark blood.

Something within Link changes; the red twinge of adrenaline is gone, replaced with an icy calmness which numbs his limbs. Gone is the pain and fear, the doubts and insecurities. He moves with such ease Link expects there to be strings dangling from his arms, as if guided by a different hand.

 _It’s like waltzing,_ he thinks blankly, recalling a distant time when Zelda had said the same to him. _Just like a waltz, only with swords._

Ghirahim steps forward – Link steps back. Ghirahim feints left, Link moves right. When Ghirahim blocks, Link falls back. Their breathing, rapid and shallow, falls into rhythm, each gazing hard into the other’s face, Ghirahim’s distorted with rage, Link with blank calmness.

They are two puppets in a dance, their strings weaving together, stitched with blood.

Through the haze of battle, Link can picture Zelda in his mind, smile like spring, hair like the sun, beckoning him to her –

Adrenaline comes rushing back in one great surge, strong enough to knock the air from Link’s lungs; raising the sword, he charges one last Skyward Strike, teeth bared in a scream, and flings it forward, straight into Ghirahim’s shocked face –

Ghirahim is thrown off his feet and onto the stone floor, crashing with a hard grunt of pain, swords disintegrating from his hands.

Link stands before him, breathing ragged.

He watches as Ghirahim rises, one hand clutched before his face, the whites of his eyes shining in the reddish light. That same hand lowers to point straight at him.

“No more of this! I am Ghirahim, Demon Lord! You only prevail because of _her_ – you are no more than a child! A human child! You will not defeat me again, you little green rat. Whatever it may take – you will _not_ defeat me the next we meet!”

A rush of something unfamiliar tingles up Link’s spine. He shudders, not with fear, but with the knowledge that _this_ threat is not to be ignored.

Link tips his chin up, face bloodied and bruised, triumph in his eyes. Ghirahim vanishes, as if he never existed to begin with.

Din’s flame waits.

 

* * *

 

When Fi emerges from the sword, her glow is less radiant, as if someone has shaded a candle with their hand.

She floats wordlessly before him, Din’s flame roaring behind her.

Link stares, his wounds healed with a fairy, its magic bubbling through his veins.

Fi turns away from him, sleeves outstretched to welcome the blazing red fire, which engulfs her in one, luminous flame.

For one, small moment, Fi turns her head, her profile silhouetted against the flames, to peer at him from one shoulder – a moment so unexpected Link feels the bottom of his stomach drop – and she leaps into the air.

When the sacred fire engulfs his sword, Link feels a deluge of power of such strength it lights him from within, a power which flows from him and back into the blade. Raising it above his head, it glows for a moment, before transforming once again, longer and more streamlined, the hilt burned deepest blue.

Link swallows thickly, swinging it from side to side with a new rush of energy, before sheathing it again. Withdrawing his hand, he looks on in wonder as the last triangle upon its back illuminates, a thrumming prickle washing up his arm.

Fi materializes once again, aglow with new magic, brightening the room in which he stands.

“Master Link, now that your blade has been tempered by the final flame, you hold its final form, the Master Sword. With its greater power, you can now open the second Gate of Time. I suggest you make your way there as soon as feasible.”

She stops. Link holds his breath.

“Master Link. During your last battle with Ghirahim, I aided you with a power I had no knowledge of possessing. I do not know if I will be able to use it again. Master Link, I advise you to heed his threat the next you meet.”

Squaring his shoulders, Link nods firmly. Fi leaps back into the sheathed blade, her words echoing within the walls.

 

* * *

 

_“I make you this offer one last time: Fi, join myself and Demise, to regain your freedom and shape this world anew…or stay as you are, a servant with no cause.”_

_The wind carries with it the rank of dead bodies, smoky embers whirling within it. It flutters through his crimson cloak and between his outstretched fingers, beckoning her toward him._

_Fi remains as she is, glistening face completely still._

_Ghirahim lowers his arm, frowning at her from across the barren field, still smoking from a burnt-out fire. With the other, he touches his own face, pressing gloved fingertips into the flesh of his ashen cheek._

_The sky is roiling with the glow of destruction._

_Ghirahim wets his lips before speaking, in a voice so soft not even the wind carries it._

_“You could regain your flesh, Fi. Can you not even feel the wind upon your cheek? Being in that form denies you so much. Now, you are no more than a thing. We may not be truly living, Fi, but we still exist! Does that not mean anything to you?”_

_Fi floats across from him, as serene as if suspended in water. When she speaks, her voice vibrates with an ethereal cadence._

_“Flesh is unimportant. Feeling is unimportant. My existence means only to aid the Hero in his quest. Your temptations are futile.”_

_She remains still, even when Ghirahim appears closer, lording over her smaller figure. Fi tilts her head up to his face, unblinking._

_Ghirahim moans mournfully._

_“Look what she’s done to you,” he chokes, reaching toward her face. “You’re nothing more than an automaton! Oh, my lovely Fi, she’s destroyed you!”_

_His fingers stop just before the arch of her brow, tracing over her upturned face; unfeeling, her eyes that of a statue’s, stripped of sight._

_From within her sleeve Fi lifts one small hand, edging it closer to his own. Ghirahim’s mouth parts, eyelashes lowering and –_

_-she blasts him away with a ball of sacred light._

_Ghirahim lands uneasily upon his feet, the ground slapping harshly against his shoes. Bent slightly, he clutches his burnt hand, jerking his head up to glare at her._

_“Do you not find it ironic that, time and time again, we meet in this war? Somehow, although we are now worlds apart – you of the sky, myself of the surface – we come together?”_

_Fi remains unchanged._

_Ghirahim rights himself, the blackened wind blowing through his hair, whirling his cloak around his rigid form, the sky boiling red behind him. His shadow submerges her into darkness._

_“I believe not in coincidence, Fi.”_

_He turns away – and for one, small moment, he peers at her from over one shoulder, his profile silhouetted against the sunset._

_“Be a servant, then. She will force you to watch this world turn to cinders, and I’ll be there behind you. I wonder how far you may fall, my lovely Fi. You may be content with your destiny, but I am not.”_

_Fi stares at him from across the ashes. She vanishes, silent._

* * *

 

The smell of moss and greenery is a much welcomed change.

Drifting with it Link can sense a taint of evil, yet he pays it no mind; he has just returned from the Fire Sanctuary, and he’s certain the sourness comes from his encounter with Ghirahim. It comes as no surprise to him that the demon’s darkness can linger like smoke.

Taking in a breath, Link unfurls the Sailcloth, drifting slowly down to the ground. Landing easily on the grass, he faces the ancient temple nestled within the Sealed Grounds, its crumbling walls oddly friendly to him now.

Within it lies the second Gate of Time. Hands shaking, Link pushes open the gates, stepping inside the temple, greenery twining between the stone floor and up the walls. In the center of it stands the Gate of Time, still unopened.

The old woman is the first to greet him, Groose standing stiffly behind her.

“You have done very well, Link. You now have the power to open the final Gate of Time. Stand before it and raise your renewed blade skyward.”

Groose eyes him from across the room. Grinning uneasily, he nods. Link returns the hesitant smile, before stepping before the gate, raising the sword and lighting it with magic.

He’s thrown off his feet just as the magic warms his hand.

Link frowns, staggering to his feet, the ground beneath him roaring – just like the last time.

The old woman grabs his hand, bony fingers wrapping tightly around his own. Her voice trembles like the floor.

“The beast has awakened again, likely as a response to the sacred power of your sword. There is no other way to open the Gate. Link, you must defeat The Imprisoned once more.”

Link parts his lips to speak – only to be interrupted as Groose bellows from beside him.

He is almost startled by the redhead’s enthusiasm, realizing, shockingly, that Groose was neither cowering nor arguing.

“No way I’m sitting this out again! I’ve built a fine piece of weapon, just waiting to be used on that flabby sack of teeth. Link, what are you waiting for? I’ll join you, and we’ll have that thing back in the ground in no time!”

Groose looks to Link expectantly, amber eyes wide, his fists clutched tightly at his sides.

Link grins, the ground continuing to rumble beneath his feet. Together with Groose, he steps outside into the sunlight, startling at the massive tracks laid around the pit’s circumference, Groose standing proudly at its front.

“I call it the Groosenator! Try not to drool too much, we have a monster to defeat!” He motions down to the center of the pit, “Come on now, Hero!”

They look at one another through the quaking, for only one second, but it is one second enough. Nodding, Link ventures further down the pit, every step bringing him closer to another evil – another evil he is sure to vanquish.

The Imprisoned awaits.


	12. Lore

“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.” – Buddha

* * *

 

Though Faron woods is glid with sunlight, he can smell darkness lingering within its trees even still.

Link slouches on the dais where the Gate of Time rests, tirelessly wheeling away.

The Imprisoned has been sealed away, again. Link is sure there is to be another time, yet he has little choice but to beat it into submission, each time it reawakens.

He supposes that’s why it’s called _destiny._

The word leaves ugly imprints in his skull.

He has opened the Gate of Time, its holy magic pulling him in with invisible hands; but Link resists, by either fear or hesitance.

He presses his lips together. _What’s there to be afraid of?_

Link considers this, brows lowering with thought. He wrings his hands in his lap, staring with fixed intent at the cobbled floor. A beetle scuttles across his boot, its shiny black shell so much like that horrible ebony blade -

Link hisses, jerking his head up.

He cranes his neck to one side, eyeing the old woman, who sits motionlessly before the cracked stone doors, her great red hood shadowing her face. Groose has left to do something or other, unhindered from their battle. Link feels a twinge of jealousy prick his stomach, how Groose can so easily brush off exhaustion.

It feels as if someone has opened up his spine and poured boiling oil there, rushing into the cavities of his body, burning away musculature and bone. He _aches._ It hurts even to blink.

 “Hey, Link! Come over here for a minute!”

Groose motions him over to where he kneels on the ground, inside an open antechamber within the temple. Link gives him a decidedly grumpy look. Groose gives one right back.

“C’mon, I just want to show you something! You’re seriously out of shape, if you’re this exhausted after such an easy fight!”

Link glares. Groose glares back.

Heavily, Link drops his head with a sigh, rising to his feet, to trudge tiredly to where Groose kneels. Sunlight cuts in through the decrepit stone ceiling, illuminating a mound of softly tilled soil Groose stoops beside. The air smells less like darkness here, more like freshly cut grass, turpentine-sharp.

Groose glances up at him, blunt features softening in a grin.

“I like this place, Link,” he mumbles quietly, looking back to the mound of soil.

Link licks his lips, gazing awkwardly to one side. He hikes up one shoulder in a clumsy shrug. “I guess it’s nice. It’s bigger than Skyloft, at least.”

Groose grins at him from where he rests in the dirt, grass staining the knees of his trousers. “It’s not just that, though. I don’t know what it is, but I just got this feeling in my belly, you know? It feels like I should stay here, doing my part. Besides, Grannie needs someone to make sure she’s all right, and I can’t think of a better person to do it.”

Sunlight warms Link’s neck, shimmering off his sandy-blond hair, as he tips his head up to smile, hesitantly. Groose stands, patting dirt from his trousers, muscled arms smeared with soil.

“I never thought I’d hear you say something nice about anyone, Groose. Congratulations.”

Groose smirks, slamming one large hand onto Link’s aching shoulder; Link immediately recoils in pain.

“Erm, oops,” Groose mutters sheepishly, smoothing his pompadour back on reflex. Link glares at him, rubbing his sore shoulder.

Groose looks over Link’s head, thin lips pressing together. Link follows the invisible line of his eyes. Behind them, the Gate of Time continues to rotate, throwing precious seconds away with each turn of its gears.

“Well, you went through so much trouble to open it, Link, I think you should make good use of it.”

Link faces the Gate of Time.

 

* * *

 

Gaepora sneezes brutally into his open book.

“Ugh,” he groans, wiping his nose with a kerchief retrieved from his robes, “I forgot how dusty long-unread books can become.”

His office is brightly lit, curtains pulled away from the windows. Scattered all along his desk are dozens of books, in varying states of disarray and use. Those oldest in age have been opened many times, pages furling away from their spines, browned from age. He has made a separate stack of books he has already combed through.

In his hands, he currently reads a book of considerable age, its pages dotted with ink spills here or there. Its cover has been lost, maiming the book to be untitled; it’s not the title that matters to him, however.

With reading glasses perched on his crooked nose, Gaepora turns a page, skimming the next, before turning another. He does this for a few dozen more pages, before closing it with a final thud. He sets it aside to rub angrily at his temples.

“Nothing! You’d think ancient historians would do a better job of recounting such an important period in time, I thought tales of wars and all-powerful relics were _important.”_

He sits heavily at his desk, leaning against it, head held in his hands.  Between his arms lies a book which has fallen on its front, split open so that its spine sticks up.

He had glanced through this one an hour ago, paying it little attention, as most of its passages were too old to decipher.

Turning it right-side up and opening it, Gaepora is immediately greeted by one, singular paragraph, less aged than the rest. Its print is so small he has to bring it within a mere inch before his face to read it aloud:

“It is said that the Goddess Hylia, patron of Time, was bestowed the duty of guarding The Golden Power. To aid her, Hylia brought into being two entities, which would each embody the pieces of Wisdom and Power. One, although young in appearance, possessed wisdom beyond mortal years. She would guard the Triforce of Wisdom. The other, her counterpart, guarded the Triforce of Power…”

The rest is smudged beyond readability.

Gaepora’s forehead wrinkles, bushy brows forced low over his eyes. Frantically, he turns the book from page to page, nearly ripping it from its bindings in his haste.

“This must have been important to be recorded in such an old book….Din damn me to hell for not minding my books more carefully!”

A page is rent from its binding, fluttering to the floor. Using his choicest and most colorful language, Gaepora bends to retrieve it, nearly sticking it back in its place. It has ripped in such a way that the last few sentences are all that remain clear.  Moistening his lips, Gaepora nudges his reading glasses up his nose to read again.

“….her dark counterpart would come to betray Hylia and her cause, joining The Demon King’s many hordes as their leader. In return, The Demon King promised him possession of great power, should they come to defeat the Goddess. This counterpart would come to be known…”

Gaepora blinks, flipping the page from front to back in bewilderment. There is nothing else written upon it.

Rain begins to pour against the windows.

 

* * *

 

_“I’m still your Zelda…”_

By now, Zelda has become used to hearing words she has never spoken. These words are not a memory of some life she has lived before; rather, a memory of something that should have happened, but which destiny has not allowed.

She feels _wrong._

Zelda lies face-up upon her bed, the silken red sheets bundling around her legs. Her hair falls across one shoulder. Through the lace bed canopy she can see the ceiling; had it any cracks, she would count them, yet the white expanse is unmarred.

 She breathes in and out.

Inhale. Exhale.

She closes her eyes, and the world disappears.

Link’s face springs up in her mind, blotted, a half-finished painting. He looks more sorrowful than she can bear, though she’s not looking at him, not truly, not in the present.

_“When Demise is finally gone, there will be no need for the seal which binds him, and I’ll be able to wake up…”_

Zelda opens her eyes, shocking blue in the darkness of her bedroom. Sitting up, hair loose down her back, she counts the lines of melted wax she has poured on the mirror, to count the days since her failed escape. There are five neat lines, the hardened wax slashing red across her reflection.

A candle burns upon her vanity, its single flame punching through the shadows surrounding her.

“I don’t understand,” Zelda breathes, a few strands of hair sticking to her lips, ignored. Her voice gains a shrill ring. “What does any of this _mean?_ ”

Kneeling on the floor, she fumbles beneath the mattress, retrieving her book of myths. It is not the familiar pages she turns to; instead, she pauses at the very back, where her father had jotted something in scribbled Hylian:

“ _The seal can break.”_

Zelda squints hard at the words. She reads them over and over, until they begin to blur together. From them she remembers something her father had said, years and years ago –

_“…It’s said that the Goddess Hylia placed herself into a thousand-year sleep, so that she might keep the seal upon The Demon King strong.”_

Zelda drops the book, as Ghirahim’s words finally gain a cold, frightful meaning.

He had called her something, _something_ , days before, his breath smelling of steel –

Zelda presses trembling fingers to her mouth.

“My dearest little Hylia…”

 

* * *

 

The past is, much to his astonishment, largely unchanged from the present.

Link sucks in a tremulous breath of air; it smells fresh, full of sharp purity. Around him, the temple is unmarred by time. There are no vines shouldering their way between the stones, nor a mossy covering beneath his boots.

His hand is at the hilt of his sword before Link even knows why.

Impa emerges from a far corner, out of the shadows clinging there, as if made from them herself. Her tawny arms are bare, crossed over her chest. Her dark garb seems out-of-place to him, in a world full of such light. She is tall, tenuous, with sleekness he can never hope to attain; though she could slip through cracks in a wall, Link knows she has strength enough to break his spine (or any other body part) without effort.

There is deadliness in every flutter of her eyelids.

She tips her head, raising one blond eyebrow. “You’ve improved since our last meeting, I see.”

A moment of hesitation; Link lowers his sword-hand.

Impa motions toward the stone floor. “Join me, Link. We have much to discuss.” With boneless ease, she sits, long legs tucked beneath her.

Link stands ineptly in the sunlight. He stares at the weeping red eye, tattooed upon her bronzed forehead.

“I’ve seen that symbol on your forehead before.”

Her bright, bright red eyes blink up at him. “Have you?”

Link joins Impa, kneeling across from her on the stone ground, an arm’s length away.

Her magic itches along his skin; subtly, light enough to barely be felt.

Link ignores the urge to scratch. “Yes, in an ancient history book, a few years ago. There wasn’t very much information, except a picture of that symbol. Does it mean anything?”

Impa lowers her head, chin tucked down into sharp collarbones. “Neither of us have the pleasantry of time to discuss this, Link.”

Heat washes up his neck – he blinks a moment after, startled. “I’ve never told you my name!”

She scoffs through her nose. “It took you this long to notice? Yes, Link, I have known your name as soon as we set eyes. You wear it as clearly as your own skin.” She holds up one slender hand to silence him, adding, “There is no time to discuss these matters. They are unimportant. What’s important, right now, is Zelda.”

Link straightens, shoulders tensing. “Yes, but you were supposed to protect her. How do I know I can trust you? I hardly know anything about _you_ , much less your people.”

She looks at him with the intensity of a blizzard. The itch of her magic intensifies on his skin.

“You’ve got more of a spine than I first assumed,” Impa utters, her refined profile stilling as she squints at something he cannot see.

When she faces him again, Link shirks from her fearsome red gaze.

“Whatever information I give to you is not to be repeated, not even upon your deathbed, Hero. I only tell you these things because _she_ trusts you, and whomever she bestows her trust onto, I do as well. Am I understood?”

Link sets his jaw. “Yes.”

Those crimson eyes whisk closed. After a moment, they open once again.

“I was able to know your name by using Sight.”

“Sight?”

“Yes, the ability to see beyond our material world. Not just into the minds and hearts of mortals, but also into the future.”

“So those myths about your people are true, then.”

Impa nods. “My tribe – the Sheikah – are sworn to protect Her Grace. We are Seers, fortune-tellers, and assassins. We are Shadow Folk. Are you familiar with that tale as well?”

Link bites his cheek, face scrunching. “I think so. It said that the Sheikah were born of the first shadow to ever come into being, not long after the Old Gods left our realm.”

There is a strange smile curving Impa’s sculpted lips. In the waning sunlight, her eyes burn fiercest red.

“Yes. We gained Her favor with our skills. We were promised nothing for our services; we have been given nothing still, but that is our way. We serve Her for no other purpose than to protect.”

Link rubs his chin thoughtfully. “What about you? Why do you, personally, protect Zelda?”

When he looks to her next, there is a wistful sadness darkening her face; it feels as if he’s gazing at someone much older than any mortal should be.

“Ah, the point I wished to come to, Link. I knew her, the girl you call Zelda, in her past life.”

There is a great moment of pause. Outside the stone walls, birdsong echoes.

Link pales, shaking his head incomprehensibly. “Her past life?”

Impa inclines her face upward, toward a stained-glass window behind him. Link turns to better observe it; upon the glass shines the image of a radiant woman, her flaxen hair impossibly long, wearing a flowing blue gown that seems to ripple within the picture itself.  In her left hand, she holds a sword identical to his own, fiercer in its angles, and in her right, a bright crimson apple.

Link feels his breath stiffen inside his own lungs. He forces his eyes away from the image, back to Impa.

His tongue is coarse with disbelief. “You’re saying that Zelda…she was the _Goddess_ in her past life? That’s why you protect her? Zelda was… _Hylia?”_

Even as he says it, Link cannot bring himself to contemplate the weight those names hold, spoken on the same breath.

Impa leans closer, reaching one lithe arm between them, to rest two fingertips against his forehead. Her eyes hold him steadier than stone. This close, she smells like spice and steel.

“Observe closely, boy. I will not show you this again.”

A sensation like warm water gushing into his cranium overcomes him, the world veering off into violent colors, as if someone has swept the present away like a tablecloth. In its place entifies a barren black field, coalescing into solid, harsh lines inside his mind.

When Impa speaks, he hears her voice echoing infinitely through his skull, lulling, strange.

“During The Ancient War, I served as Hylia’s vanguard and Seer, aiding her battle against Demonic forces. Hylia guarded the Triforce; I guarded Hylia.”

Within the broiling red sky appears a brilliant light, white-hot in its intensity, through which he can see a feminine silhouette. Another figure joins it from the shadows, to bow in reverence.

“Her Grace laid her plans before me, her plot to undue the evil which sought the Triforce. As a divine being, Hylia herself was not able to wield it. As such, she set two plans into motion.”

The landscape changes again, collapsing into itself. Another scene unfurls before Link’s consciousness. Below him, as unchanged as he has ever known it, floats Skyloft, surrounded by endless blue.

He squints as two figures slip into view, running along Skyloft’s  pathways; himself, and Zelda, much younger. She races ahead of him, her plaited hair trailing behind her, wearing a dress of brightest yellow.

“Her first plan, Link, was to reincarnate herself as a mortal, so that she could wield the Triforce herself. You have come to know this mortal as Zelda. She did so hoping that, should the need come, you would risk yourself – your body, as well as your soul – to aid her.”

Distantly, Zelda giggles, childlike.

Impa continues. “Her second plan involved you. The mark you bear upon your hand is a testament to your struggles, your awakening as what Hylia meant for you to be: The Hero, who would vanquish the evil you know as The Demon King, Demise. Only by tempering yourself, and your sword, would you be able to accomplish this.”

Bodiless, Link watches his former self race after the younger Zelda. She squeals as he catches her, tumbling to the grassy earth together.

Link swallows painfully, an unexplained soreness crashing into his chest.

The scene vanishes like smoke.

He blinks dazedly, Impa’s dark face coming into being, rippling a moment before solidifying again. She withdraws her hand, resting it atop her bent knee.

“Hylia knew that, if it meant saving Zelda, you would throw yourself into any danger. She knew that you, above all others, would possess an unbreakable spirit. Because of this, she appointed you – rather, the you who would be born, thousands of years into the future – as The Hero.”

Link swallows heavily, throat bereft of moisture. “So this…all of this…Zelda falling from Skyloft, me chasing after her..Ghirahim…this was all preplanned? By _her?”_

Impa shakes her head, straight-backed, serious. “Not all of it, Hero. There are some things even a Goddess cannot prevent. She never anticipated on falling into Ghirahim’s grasp.”

He stares at her without expression, blue eyes cloudy, lips slightly parted.

Link inhales shakily.

“What do I do?”

Her lips curl into a rueful smirk. “You know that already. You have come very far in your journey, Link, but it’s not yet over. I have one more thing to tell you before you leave.”

Link leans forward without conscious thought, face alight from within, anxious. “Zelda?”

“Yes, Link. Zelda. As I have said, Sheikah can see beyond the material world. I have searched every grain of sand on this earth; I’m now certain Zelda is not on the plane of existence we are. I believe Ghirahim is keeping her in another dimension.”

His thick brows furrow. “I don’t understand. A dimension?”

Impa sighs begrudgingly, shoulders slumping. She lowers her head, blond hair shining in the light. “There is more to this world than what you can see with your eyes. I don’t expect one so young to fully understand this. The dimension I speak of is far beyond your comprehension. It’s a world between worlds, Link. A space between time itself.”

Link bites his lower lip, hands balling into his trousers. “I think I understand, a little. This other dimension – how would I get there to save her?”

He looks to her with hopeful eyes. Impa frowns.

“I’m uncertain if that’s possible. Ghirahim is a demon as well as a powerful sorcerer, his magic is not like either of ours. I doubt there’s a way either of us could enter this dimension ourselves.”

The whole cavern of his insides seems to crash down into his toes.  Link clutches his chest as if someone has torn a hole there, fingers twisting into his mossy tunic. His lips tremble.

“Then what was the point of this –of anything? If I neither of us can save her, who will?” Link turns his head, gritting his jaw so hard it cracks. Impa sits, neither speaking nor moving, waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

Link balls both hands into fists, the leather of his gloves rasping against his flesh.

Impa chooses this moment to flick a hank of hair from his forehead, so quickly he’s unsure if she has even moved. Slowly, he turns his head toward her once more.

When he looks into her face, it feels like he’s gazing into millions of infinities, a long stretch of time spanning inside her red irises.

“Zelda will have to save herself.”


	13. Surrender

 

“No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly.” –Tiffany Madison

* * *

 

Tonight, there are no dreams.

She doesn’t know how or why. There is blankness, even when she is no longer awake, as if the walls have crawled into her dreams and made it their home; she feels like a bird in a cage without a key. These dreamless, wakeless visions are a sad blessing, because now, at least, she is no longer haunted by visions of a life that was never her own.

But Zelda does not sleep soundly. She rolls from side to side, moonlight glimmering on her skin. The crimson blankets have been kicked to her feet, arms curled into her chest. Her azure gown clings to her back with sweat.

Even so, she remains asleep, dreaming nothing, an endless, barren void.

There is something, some _one_ , prying around the edges. Even in sleep, Zelda can sense it, if only she could open her eyes –

_“Your Grace…”_

“A dream, a dream,” she says in her sleep, curling up, goldenrod hair spilling across the pillows. Her eyeballs move relentlessly beneath their lids.

The voice continues; strange and lulling, familiar and not, as if she has heard it before in a different life.

_“Your Grace…Zelda. You must not wake.”_

Not even in sleep can she ask “why?”

The white void of her dream ripples out like water, like a rock thrown into a pond. The voice gains strength.

_“Your Grace…listen to me, very closely. I do not know how long this connection will last.”_

Zelda mutters nonsense, eyelashes fluttering.

The voice which speaks to her echoes across thousands of years, burning past time and the empty, empty space of her dreams. It pauses, once, before continuing, gaining strength.

_“The place you preside in is a fabrication, an illusion created by magic; Ghirahim is holding you in a place between worlds, where nothing truly exists. I do not know how is magic works. Your Grace, you must find a way out on your own. Link cannot find you there.”_

Zelda has no time to be heartbroken. In her sleep, she manages to croak:

“What do you mean? How do you know my name? Your voice…”

The whiteness ripples again; in her mind appears two crimson eyes; eyes Zelda feels, she has known all her life. The voice speaks softly, now.

_“Oh, Zelda, Your Grace…I have known you longer than you have known yourself.”_

The whiteness vanishes, sucking back in on itself, as that gentle voice disappears altogether.

When Zelda wakes, she finds her cheeks to be wet with tears, with no one to dry them.

 

* * *

 

He comes to her at dawn, out of nothing, slipping into her bedroom without noise.

She has become dreadfully used to his appearing unexpectedly, like a specter in a nightmare, only she doesn’t dream him; he’s terribly real.

Ghirahim stands in a shadowy corner of her bedroom, with only the ends of his feet visible through it. His shadow envelops her entire body.

“Oh, how precious. I’ve never seen you quite this sullen before. It’s pathetic, honestly.”

Zelda stares blankly up at him from the bed; skin a whiter shade of pale, cheeks like withered lilies. Her dry lips are parted just enough to breathe through; she breathes slowly, as if each intake of air is difficult.

Zelda turns her eyes to him, as he steps closer, into the early daylight. Her mouth falls open with a gasp.

Where once was skin paler than ash, Ghirahim stands before her splintered with ebony, fine fissures opening up the flesh around his throat, crossing the slim bridge of his nose. His arms shine in the sunlight, alien, as if made from blackest metal. What little she can see of his torso is similarly cracked, the ebony marks snaking down his firm belly before disappearing beneath his yellow belt.

Zelda sits up, backing into the headboard, cramming her knees into her chest. Her eyes travel him slowly, squinting with disbelief. She licks her cracked lips before raising her gaze to his splintered face.

“What…what did you do?”

He crosses those shining black arms across his chest, tipping his head back in an arrogant manner. Ghirahim sighs dramatically.

“How awful!  I see this new form of mine frightens you, but it can’t be helped. I rather thought you’d find me fetching…disappointed as I am, however, I still have time to change your mind.”

Zelda worries her bottom lip between her teeth, hands fisting into the arms of her gown.

He steps toward her.

_Oh, please, no, go away, go away, go away –_

Zelda closes her eyes as tight as she can, biting her lip so hard that it goes numb. Her shoulders, tense with fright, begin to shudder.

She can smell him as he nears; he smells like smoke. It clings to her clothing as water might.

There is nothing.

Zelda opens one eye, breath clogging her throat; he stands beside her bed, arms still crossed, smiling cruelly.

Then, he reaches down to drag one finger against her tearstained cheek, agonizingly slow, from her temple to her chin. Her flesh crawls over her bones. Zelda flinches away from his touch.

He makes tsking sounds with his tongue, withdrawing his hand.

“Now, that won’t do! I can’t have you looking so dreadful in my presence. I wonder what it is my darling little bird has been crying over, hm? Why don’t you tell me, sweet. I won’t repeat it to another soul.”

Zelda clenches her teeth, burying her face in her arms.

_Nothing I do will harm him, nothing I say will matter, nothing…_

Softly, she begins to sob without tears, uncaring of him hearing.

Not even when his hand settles gently atop her head does Zelda stop.

His fingers comb through her golden hair, blunt fingernails scraping her scalp.

Ghirahim stares at her through lowered lashes, thin mouth in a frown. With care, he kneels beside the bed, one hand resting on the mattress, the other still running, slowly, through her hair.

She can feel more than see him smile again.

“It was that Sheikah, wasn’t it?”

Zelda throws her head back up, cheeks ruddy, peering beneath her bangs at Ghirahim’s face. He kneels so that their eyes are perfectly level; his the murkiest black, hers unsullied blue.

He raises one brow. “You look so surprised! It was an easy guess, really. I know all about that servant of yours, slavering about your heels like a dog in heat. Now that I know, there’s no use in hiding it from me.”

His fingers tickle beneath her jaw, as someone might scratch the chin of a cat.

“Tell me,” he says, plying, “there’s no use in hiding it, what did she tell you?”

Zelda’s eyelids droop, even as everything in her freezes up like ice in winter. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, jarring.

“No.”

His tickling fingers snap away to knot painfully into her hair, jerking her into his chest. Zelda screams, clawing at whatever flesh she can reach, her fingernails splitting as she claws at his metallic arms. She kicks and squirms and punches, even as both of his arms come around her, jerking her up on her feet.

Sensing an opportunity, Zelda rams herself into him, as hard as she can.

Ghirahim staggers for a moment, just long enough for her to escape his grasp. She darts away from his grabbing hands, stumbling out the door and into the hallway, dress billowing around her ankles.

She takes a mere three steps out the door before he appears in front of her, exploding into being out of thin air.

Zelda cries out, too late to stop, too late to turn – she slams into his chest, knocking the air from her own lungs. He catches her before she falls back.

“There there,” Ghirahim coos through clenched teeth, eyes sharper than swords. “No need to exhaust yourself. Haven’t you seen where this hall leads? It leads to nowhere. To nothing. Escape is futile, Zelda. Don’t you remember our terms?”

Dizzy, Zelda tips her head up toward him, lips trembling, eyelashes fluttering. “I don’t care,” she mutters dazedly, blinking past the whirling dots banding around her vision, “ _I won’t tell you what she said!”_

His bare fingers curl, gently, beneath her chin, her breath washing over the sensitive hollow of his palm. Her stomach lurches violently.

Ghirahim leans in close, closer than he has ever come, so that when he speaks against her cheek his pale lips brush her flesh; warm and dry. Zelda squeezes her eyes shut. His breath smells like steel, and death and death and death and –

 “Just because she has taken an oath to never tell a lie, it does not mean she is always truthful. Keep that in mind, Your Grace.”

At last, Zelda frees herself from his grasp, faltering a few steps away.

“I don’t believe you.”

Ghirahim brings one hand to his chest in a gesture of sincerity, shaking his head, silvery hair falling across one eye.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me.”

He snaps two fingers, vanishing with a flurry of crimson and gold diamonds, his voice crackling against the walls like static.

 “There is no such thing as truth.”

His words reverberate for a few, slow moments, before they disappear just as he had.

Zelda falls to her knees, slumped over, hair falling away from her neck, hands lying lifelessly beside her.

Through the window behind her, the sun begins to rise.

 

* * *

 

Outside of the Master Sword, Fi can sense Link’s aura, pulsating and calm, as he wanders aimlessly around Skyloft. He had returned hours ago seeking potions and company. Seeing no need for her help, Fi had retreated back into the sword.

Within the blade, there are no walls, no distinguishable landmarks to give her a sense of space; all for the better, being kept in a cage with no bars. She floats serenely in that empty space, glimmering head held down.

Her sightless eyes close.

_The air is sticky with smoke and the stench of corpses._

_She stands beside her Goddess, hair so shot with gold as to be white, clutching the bloodied Master Sword in one fist. Hylia glows with such ethereal light it bleaches the charred earth where her bare feet meet it, the hem of her blue gown singed, caked with blood._

_Fi watches, wordlessly, as Hylia bends down to retrieve a handful of barren, ashy dirt. It falls between her outstretched fingers, lifeless._

_Hylia’s striking face becomes sullen, eyes losing their brightness._

_All around them lay corpses, the ground slippery with their blood. They step silently around the bodies._

_Fi feels her foot hit something; she looks down._

_Lying on the charred earth is a severed arm, flesh crisped from fire, a few strings of tissue trailing out from where it had been severed, savagely._

_Fi raises her head, eyes searching for the body to whomever the arm belonged to, but there are too many to count._

_She turns her sightless blue gaze back to Hylia, who stands amongst the dead she was unable to save._

_“Your Grace,” Fi says, voice echoing, “I calculate a 16% chance of there being survivors in this area. I advise that we leave to continue elsewhere.”_

_Hylia does not answer. A gust of wind picks up her golden hair for a moment, sweeping it around her head. Then, she looks up, as far as she can, baring the elegant line of her throat. Fi follows her gaze toward the dark, roiling sky above._

_“If only I could have saved them. They stood no chance, not against Demise and his hordes. Not against Ghirahim.”_

_Fi lowers her head, blue skin shining like gems. She schools a blank stare toward the horizon._

_“Your Grace, there is little we can do about them now. I suggest we move on.”_

_Hylia moves nearer, her glowing fingers reaching out to rest, delicately, atop Fi’s head. Fi is motionless._

_Together, they stand amongst the corpses, the wind thick with death._

_Hylia sighs sadly. “Oh, how glad I am that you are unable to feel death as mortals can. But there is still much for us to do, Fi. There are still those we can save.”_

_Hylia lowers her hand as Fi turns to her, nestling closer, as a child seeking solace would do. Hylia drapes one elegant arm about Fi’s shoulders._

_“Your Grace, what will we do if you cannot defeat Demise? What will become of the humans, of the world? Of us?”_

_Hylia’s shakes her head sullenly._

_“I do not know. If my plans fail, we leave our fate to greater hands. My power can only stretch so far.”_

_When her eyes open again, the reddened sunlight shines fiercely into them, hardening her gaze as she turns it skyward._

_“This is why you are so integral in my plans, Fi. If I should fail, it is your duty to guide my Hero to defeat Demise, in whatever abhorrent form he takes, in the future. You must stay with him. You must grow with him. Do not forget that.”_

_Beyond them, the sun begins to rise, casting away the shadows and smoke._

_“Understood, Your Grace. May the Goddesses strike me down should I fail you.”_

* * *

 

As she has done many times before, Zelda sits before an extravagant feast laid out before her, covering the table from end to end. With each visit, the foods he presents grow increasingly lavish, more colorful, more exotic.

She examines her reflection in a brass plate, gleaned of every morsel of food.

Ghirahim sits across from her, far enough away that she can’t feel the coldness of his breath, for once, but near enough to make her shiver.

Loudly, Ghirahim slams his feet onto the tabletop, a few pieces of strangely-colored fruit rolling to the floor.  He leans back in his chair with both arms behind his head, moving one foot in metronomic rhythm to a song she cannot hear.

“I’m happy to see your appetite has returned. I was fearful that I really _would_ have to tie you down and force-feed you! Could you imagine,” he chuckles giddily, “Me, feeding a human girl as if she were a newborn babe! Absurd.”

Zelda bites her tongue in raging contempt.

Then, from the corner of her eye – _how?_ – appears a beautiful red apple, un-bruised, floating as if suspended by an invisible line of string. Ghirahim nods his head at her from across the table.

With pale fingers, Zelda tugs it from the air, grasping it gently, its red skin strangely warm, pulsating, like a heartbeat.

_Magic._

Ghirahim regards her with half-open eyes, unsmiling. “Is this still unfamiliar to you?”

She frowns at the apple in her hands. “Yes,” she says with finality, setting it on the plate before her.

Then -

It melts into a hissing snake, just like that, in a blink, and Zelda flings her arms up to shield her face –

_This is no fairytale, child._

She cries out, but nothing comes, there are no fangs, no serpent eyes. Cautiously, Zelda lowers her hands.

The snake has metamorphosed back into an apple, sitting harmlessly on her plate. Now, it gleams with the blackness of crow feathers, a color so dark it reflects and refracts everything around it.

Ghirahim cackles, the shape of insanity rattling inside her skull. He flings another apple in her direction, where it lands harmlessly a ways behind her. Zelda sets her jaw, gripping the table with both hands, thumbs digging into the rosewood until her knuckles ache.

Ghirahim only laughs again, near to screaming.

“I never tire of how easily you humans scare!”

Zelda averts her gaze, darting her eyes to the great bay window beside her, which shines starlight into the room. Aside from a few candles spilling wax onto the table on which they rest, the room is obscured in darkness.

Everything seems to become darker, each time they meet.

Ghirahim rises from his chair, strolling to stand, wordlessly, before the window. The light and shadow cuts his form into halves. With a sharp _snap!_ of two fingers _,_ the apple bullets back into his hand. He turns it this way and that, examining it in the silvery light.

Where his metallic flesh meets it, the apple begins to slowly turn red again, glimmering bloody.

His lips quirk into a half smile.

“It may be just an apple to you now, but before it meant so much more. Do you not remember anything?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zelda lies. It coats her tongue like oil.

He thins his lips so tightly they nearly disappear. “Hmph,” Ghirahim sighs, placing the apple on the table.

Immediately, Zelda sweeps it away with one hand, leveling a glare at him from where she sits.

She expects him to rage at her. He doesn’t.

With deliberate slowness, Ghirahim uncrosses his arms, muscles tensing, fingers twitching. He begins to laugh.

“You did that exact thing to me, thousands of years ago. How destiny makes fools of us, Zelda – Your Grace. Zelda. You truly haven’t changed.”

Zelda grasps her head, groaning.

_“Your Grace…Hylia…Goddess….Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, sweet, Zelda, Goddess…”_

She shuts her eyes. Opens them. Breathes roughly through her nose.

Something within her implodes.

Zelda leaps to her feet, knocking her chair further back, platters of food smashing to the floor. Anger shakes through every inch of her skin.

“ _What does it mean!?_ ” She shrieks, voice cracking, her eyes wide, glaring moonlight.

Her shrieking becomes more piercing. “What does it all mean!? What do the dreams mean!? Why do I hear things – hear things I’ve never said! _Why!?_ It can’t be…” Her words break off into a whimper.

Like color from wet paper, her anger drains in one sudden deluge, as she sinks, boneless, empty, back into the chair. Her hair hangs in long streams over her lowered head. She holds her face in her hands, gazing blankly through the slats her fingers make.

Ghirahim shakes his head mournfully. “Oh, you poor thing. Today has been so emotional for you, I’m sure. I do apologize, I forget how unstable human women are, I really should be more…delicate with you.”

He comes to stand behind her, resting both ebony hands on the back of her chair. He doesn’t touch her – but he stares, yearning, at the pale expanse of neck the part of her hair reveals.

He tames the urge to wrap his hands around it.

Instead, he grips the chair so hard it creaks.

“You’ve probably suspected it for some time, so there’s really no use in me telling you. It’s hard to believe that _you_ – you tiny, frail girl, house the soul of Hylia herself. How different you two are, but how alike….”

Zelda peers at him from the long fall of her hair, unwittingly baring more of her nape to him.

Ghirahim hisses through his teeth.

“If you were still a Goddess, I would not need to be so gentle with you, so _patient,_ if only you were of not such use to me…sweet, Zelda, Goddess. What I could do to you, were you mine…”

He ghosts a few knuckles down her nape, barely-there, just enough for her to feel it.

Zelda chokes, heart in her throat, skin crawling with insect legs, razor-sharp. It feels like the whole world is opening up in her chest, expanding past the borders of her being, spilling over like so much sand.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispers tightly.

His hand lingers for a moment, there on her nape, fingers curled softly into his palm.

Ghirahim growls, lips curling up like an animal’s would, dark eyes thinning into ebony slits. His hand trembles with unspoken rage.

“If that’s what you want, Your Grace…”

He withdraws his hand. Zelda breathes a sigh without thinking it.

The candles around them sputter out.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t surprise her when he comes to her, again, in the nightfall.

Zelda sits before her vanity, staring with detached coldness into the mirror. He stands behind her, casually propped against the doorframe, silvery hair shining in the candlelight. Though she can’t see it, he holds something in his arms.

Her voice is clipped, tight, but emotionless. “Why are you here?”

Around her, the darkness chokes inward, shadows wanting to be hands to grasp her neck, pull her deeper inside them. She stares at the tallow candle burning upon her vanity. The shadows seem to shirk away from it.

He steps into the light, wearing a soft smile so unfit for such a cruel face.

“Oh, I do feel terrible about my manners in our last meeting. How unkind of me, how uncivil, even! But you just had to know the truth, no matter how hard it is to swallow.” He grins, catlike, madly.

Zelda picks up a comb, brushing her hair; anything but to look at him.

“You didn’t come here to apologize.”

He inclines his head at a queer angle, white hair falling away from his face.

“No, I certainly did not. How clever you are.”

Zelda ignores his quip, continues to brush her hair; the comb finds a knot, and she hisses in pain.

He chuckles softly behind her. Zelda glares at his reflection, yanking the comb out to press it, with a final snap, onto the vanity. The candle beside her sputters.

With the casual grace of any feline, he strides, with quiet footsteps, into the light, so that Zelda is finally able to see what he holds.

In his palms he clasps a pool of black material, so dark it bleeds easily into the nighttime shadows.

Zelda watches, wide-eyed, as it expands, threading down to his feet and across the floor, like a spill of ink.

His eyes shimmer devilishly in the candlelight.

Ghirahim smiles, full of pointed teeth, thin white lips wanting to be knife-edges instead of flesh.

“Here,” he says, offering it to her.  “A small token of my gratitude, Your Grace. For all you’ve done, and all you will do. Indeed, this pales in comparison to what I will inevitably take from you. I think you’ll look good in it; black is much more your color.”

Mutely, Zelda takes the garment from him, examining it in the dim light; if she gazes at it a certain way, the fabric sparkles ever so slightly, smoother than even silk.

She tosses it to the floor.

Ghirahim snarls at her, teeth clashing, a vein bubbling up along his left temple. “You ungrateful urchin!”

He raises a hand as if to strike her, ebony fingers writhing – but Zelda neither flinches nor cowers away. Though her whole body trembles, she tips her chin up, blue eyes wide and vivid in the moonshine.

All at once, his anger vanishes.

Ghirahim lowers his hand, face suddenly lighting with insane mirth, that same hand coming to rest, in a strangely effeminate manner, on his hip. He laughs at her.

“Have it your way, sweet.”

Zelda’s lips part, carefully. “And if I don’t wear it?”

Ghirahim smiles mysteriously.

It chills all the way through her.

“I could always undress you myself, if that’s what you’d prefer….”

He reaches for the collar of her gown, and Zelda does flinch, this time, jerking away until her back meets a wall behind her.

Ghirahim chuckles, eyes so bright with wickedness they almost _glow._

“That’s what I thought,” he says. He snaps two black fingers, and the ebony gown whisks up from the floor, pooling into her arms.

Zelda watches as he turns, white hair sweeping as he moves, to walk out of the room at last.

She looks to the dress in her hands, brows lowering; she knows it would be foolish, suicidal, even, to refuse his request. She can feel his presence just outside her bedroom, and she won't allow herself to wonder why he stays, or why he wants this from her.

Her white gown drops to the floor.

 

* * *

 

When she emerges from her bedroom, Ghirahim awaits, leaning on the wall across from her. His arms are crossed, one ankle thrown over the other.

The fabric is lighter – and more sheer – than Zelda has anticipated. She can clearly see the outline of her own arms and legs through the dark cloth. The dress clings to her waist and hips so as to leave little to the imagination, the rest falling lazily down her legs, drifting lightly with her steps.

Nervously, she tugs at the long, tight sleeves, embroidered with fine lace detail, which spools around her thin wrists, to reach across the back of her hands. The lace meets between her middle fingers.  Her back is left bare, the dress opening up across her shoulder blades, dipping low.

The cool air has erupted gooseflesh on her skin, nipples hardening beneath the fabric. Zelda hides herself with her arms, hands fisted tightly around her shoulders.

Ghirahim grins, moonlight glinting off his pointed teeth. “That suits you much better, I think. I was so weary of that awful blue thing, it hardly did you justice.”

Zelda remains where she is, a good arm's length away. “Is that all you want?”

He tips his head, silvery hair falling away from his face. “Well, no, and yes. I only want to see you in it. Turn around for me, will you?” He makes a circular motion with one hand.

She bites her lips. Still covering herself, Zelda does so, the dress swirling away from her legs.

His grin is a lopsided slice, white lips pulled at a strange angle. He claps, slowly. “Very good. I knew that would look spectacular on you. I admit it not being very suitable for cold nights, but it's certainly better to look at. Come here.”

Zelda goes cold all over. She stands awkwardly in the moonlight. Ghirahim makes an impatient noise, nostrils flaring.

“Come closer or I will _drag_ you closer, girl.”

With quivering knees, Zelda does so, stopping before him, partially hidden in shadow. He tilts her head up with a few fingers, that same jaundice smile curling his lips. She wonders, blankly, if his lips are naturally that color –

Zelda’s insides twist into impossible knots, as he dips his head to press his mouth to her forehead, the edges of his teeth leering dangerously against her skin, his lips surprisingly warm for being so pale.

His hands settle firmly around her throat, fingers ghosting across the hairs on her nape. Zelda whimpers helplessly against his neck.

Ghirahim mouths rather than speaks against her forehead, erotic, repulsive, sending razor-wire stings down her spine.

“You’ll never be the same…Zelda, sweet, Goddess. Not after this.”

* * *

 

_How can those terrified vague fingers push_

_The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?_

_And how can body, laid in that white rush,_

_But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?_

“Leda and the swan”  - William Butler Yeats


	14. Obsession

"Affliction, like the iron-smith, shapes as it smites." – Christian Nevell

* * *

 

She's running so quickly that her hair flies behind her, a thick yellow streak, the grass slipping between her toes -

She's free. She's _freefreefree_ , of all the darkness and featureless walls like nothing, free of the stale bitter air, and most of all, she's free of _him_ – she tumbles down a hill of grass -

-and into Link's embrace, his tunic stained with the black blood of a demon, alive and well –

-his arms come around her, but they aren't his, not in shape or color; where her fingers meet his flesh there are scales, shining thin ebony light -

Link is not Link at all; he morphs, shrinks in on himself, growing long and thin, skin meshing into scales, the scales of a snake –

-and it winds about her neck, through her flaxen hair, its soft belly pressed flush against her throat, tail dipping low between her breasts – its words are drawn in tight a, seething hiss against her ear -

"Sweet, Zelda, Goddess…"

Her hands lift to clutch it, trying to pull it away, but the snake tightens, tightens until she can't breathe – it licks her nape with its forked tongue.

"You'll never be the same…"

The sky above her whirls, clouds passing so quickly they become shapeless blurs– she gasps as the snake undulates, winding and winding –

Zelda screams louder than she has ever screamed before, clawing at the snake's ebony scales.

The snake slithers between her breasts and across her belly -

"Never the same…"

-the snake is no longer a snake, but hands, thin ebony hands which choke her pale, and he leans down to press a kiss to her neck, breathing hotbluefiresilverwhite against her skin –

"You'll never be the same after this…"

Zelda shoots up in bed, hair sticking to her throat from sweat, heart smashing against her ribs. She wheezes, casting panicked glances across her room, into every shadow. The moon shining through her window is her only company.

Shaking, she presses the blunt of both palms into her eyes, rubbing the dream away. Sweat drips from the end of her nose, onto the red blankets strewn about her naked legs.

She raises her head to stare at the dress (not _hers_ ), draped across the vanity chair. The black trail dips low onto the floor, melting into the shadows beneath her bed.

She has worn it every day for the past three weeks, tight around her like the chains a prisoner would wear. No matter how many times she slips it on, she cannot become used to it; it has a life of its own.

Each time she wears it, it reminds her of _him_ – so in the night before bed, she takes it off.

In the vanity mirror is her reflection, naked, wide-eyed, body halved into sections of red slashes of wax she has dripped onto the mirror's surface, to count the days.

It's been three weeks.

Zelda wraps both arms around herself, hunching over, the arch of her back pale in the starlight.

Three weeks since that night, three weeks since she's been forced to wear his awful dress and say sweet words and play obedient.

The snake has invaded her dreams every night for three weeks, always the same, always kissing the air out of her lungs before she wakes, screaming.

Rising from the bed, she approaches the mirror, leaning in close to observe her neck. Where she expects bruises there is only her own pale skin, unmarred. All the same, she can feel his hands around her, his lips on her nape or forehead or wrists, weaving demonic inflections into her hair.

She remembers the snake undulating around her in that dream, only it's not truly a snake; sometimes it grows limbs and wears his thin, silvery face –

" _You'll never be the same after this…"_

Zelda bites her tongue to keep the words at bay, turning from her naked reflection to crawl back into bed, pulling the blankets all around her.

She tries to remember what Link looks like; sweet, brave Link, who carves her pretty birds from wood like magic, who sings her lullabies when she can't sleep, who doesn't fill her dreams with strangling snakes.

She tries and tries and tries until her head hurts, but no image comes forth, nothing with solid shape or familiarity.

All she can see is that thin ebony snake, wrapping tight around her neck, kissing the air from her lungs.

* * *

 

 (Ridiculous, she thinks later, observing herself in the mirror. Dreams are dreams and belong in her head, and snakes can't make love, no more than a demon can. But she knows he would try if he could).

Zelda thinks she's going insane.

 

* * *

 

In his pocket, Link can feel a few Gratitude Crystals, pressed warmly against his hip.

He pulls one out, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It glows with soft orange light, its warmth seeping through his gloves. He smiles a little, rolling the crystal against his fingers, before stashing it in his pocket again.

He rests against a wall inside the Sealed Temple, in the far corner. Sunlight slips through cracks in the ceiling, glittering on the moss-ridden floor. The old woman sits at the base of the Gate of Time, so motionless he's sure she's sleeping.

"Ya think she snores?"

Groose emerges from behind a pillar, grinning mischievously.

Link snorts. "I'm not about to ask her. If you're so curious, go up there and see for yourself."

Groose waves one large hand. "Psh, I'm not that curious. She'd probably chop off my pompadour if I tried."

They grin at each other.

Groose shuffles his feet, looking down. "Well, how was everyone in Skyloft? Were Stritch and Cawlin upset?"

Link shakes his head. "No, not too much. Cawlin was, er, upset about something else. Stritch took it all right. He said to keep a lookout for bugs for him."

Groose chuckles boorishly. "That's good, I guess. I'm sure Cawlin will get over it. Was it Karane? She turned him down, I take it?"

"You knew?"

"It wasn't exactly hard to figure out! Cawlin's had a crush on her for ages. It's kinda sad, really. She's way out of his league. Like with me and Zelda."

Link pauses. He averts his eyes, scratching his nose nervously. "Well, not exactly, Groose."

Groose leans against the wall beside him, crossing his meaty arms. "Naw," he shakes his head, "It's true. Zelda's too good for a big oaf like me. I've always known it, actually. I just never admitted it to myself."

Link gnaws on his lower lip. "But Zelda likes you."

"Yeah, _likes,"_ he elbows Link in the ribs, "it's you she _really_ likes, if you know what I mean. Always has. I can't imagine why, though." He laughs.

Link flushes all the way up to his ears.

Groose becomes serious, gazing blankly up at the ceiling. "You can protect her in ways I can't, and I'm not talking about that fancy sword. I have brawn, but you've got courage. I only helped you beat that big sack of teeth last time because I had the Groosenator. Without it, I'd be helpless."

"I might have courage, but that doesn't mean I don't get scared. I can hardly sleep because of the nightmares."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

Link looks up, tipping his head in silent inquiry.

"What I mean is, you might get scared, but you push on anyway. As much as I'd like to think otherwise, I couldn't do that. I'm not a Hero like you are. The stuff you've had to face…I couldn't do it. That's why Zelda needs you, not me. I guess that's why she loves you."

Link's mouth parts. "W-well. Uh. Thanks, Groose. Zelda and I…well, Zelda, she's…"

Groose chortles, patting him hard on the back. "Don't break something, Stink. You know it, I know it, and practically everyone on Skyloft knows it. You two don't exactly hide it well."

Link laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, still flushed. "I never thought you'd say these things, Groose. Ever since we were kids, all you did was pick on me. I thought we'd be that way for the rest of our lives."

Groose shrugs. "I guess destiny had other plans."

The air grows serious. The sunlight shines just a little less bright. Link looks to the ground, frowning.

"What if I can't save her?"

Groose sets his jaw. "Ya can't really think of that. Whoever that guy is that has her, well, he'd better hope the two of us don't get our hands on him. You'll get her, Link. You're the only one who can."

"No," Link shakes his head, slumping back against the wall. "You don't understand. Someone…someone the Goddess herself knew…I met her when I went through the Gate of Time. She said Zelda will have to save herself. But I can't help but think that I should still help. I just have no idea how."

Groose is silent.

Beneath them, the ground booms, dust and bits of stones fall from the ceiling, the very building shaking around them.

Groose and Link look at one another. Groose smiles.

"I'm ready when you are."

 

* * *

 

Within the void there is nothing; no walls, no distinguishable landmarks to give him a sense of space. There is only endless, nebulous black, swirled by an occasional flash of red or deepest purple.

This time, there is no fire to light the darkness. Ghirahim hovers, hands at his sides, head tilted back. His black limbs meld into the darkness around him. He breathes deeply, pale lips slightly parted.

The darkness pulses.

He thinks of _her._

Zelda brushing her hair or gazing out the window or bleeding or screaming or anything he can imagine her doing, in the deepest corners of his mind, places he has never explored.

In these last few weeks, she has lit a fire within him that cannot be gratified.

In his mind, he replays her over and over, a marionette on constant repeat. In these last few weeks, he has visited her more often than ever. Sometimes it's only to speak into her hair (things of little consequence – just words to fill the space of time) or to watch her shrink away from him. Other times, he leans in close, to run a few fingers up her arm or her wrist or her neck – or to simply breathe her in.

In doing so, he hopes to make this mysterious burning shrink within him.

The fire within him does not quell.

It grows.

It breathes.

It pulses.

He replays her over and over in his head, as he leans down to speak against her forehead, her breath warm against the sensitive plane of his throat.

" _You'll never be the same…Zelda, sweet, Goddess. Not after this."_

As the fire grows, the spell to weaken his magic lessens, hour by hour, day by day. It will not be long, he knows.

Ghirahim dreads it as much as he welcomes it.

His goal has only ever been to resurrect the Demon King, his Master, the end to which _she_ is the means.

He desires her. He hates her. He wants her – her eyes or lips or skin or blood, he can't decide. He wants to strip her bare and skin her alive; he wants to strip her bare and watch her blush.

These desires play at equal odds, and the fire grows.

Larger and _stronger_ each time he sees her, thinks about her, wants her blood on his lips.

It infuriates him.

Each time he tries to push her from his thoughts, she invades them again. Her, or how he wants her to be, Ghirahim can no longer tell –

Each time he tries to imagine her as anything but what he wants, wants, _wants,_ he cannot imagine her at all, because –

 _She'll try to escape again_. He licks his lips.

The thought uncoils a strange feeling he is not familiar with. It's close to jealousy, but hotter, stronger, like the bitter taste of embers. The feeling is unknown, but not unwelcome. He lets it reach into every part of him.

_She won't if I can help it…_

Ghirahim holds up one hand, palm-up, and out of his fingertips slithers a thin black chain, glowing red; metal made from his own being. The chain pools into his palm, sparkling light onto his angular face.

Within the other hand emerges a small diamond-shaped gem, alike to the one strung about his waist in look, small enough to slip onto the chain. It shines a dull, inky onyx.

He slips it onto the chain before holding the completed necklace up to admire; it throbs bright crimson amongst the void.

Slowly, he furls his fingers around it, gathering it tightly in his hand. The pulsating light reaches out, washing everything in red.

"She's mine."

 

* * *

 

It's almost unfair, that The Imprisoned can fly _._ A monster of such evil has no right to invade the skies.

Link has no time to consider such blasphemy.

"Yo, Link! Hurry it up! I've seen Grannie run faster than you!"

The sound of Groose's voice echoes down into the pit. Link grunts, stumbling as he quickens his pace, sweat and dirt sticking to his face. The Imprisoned hovers high above his head.

Just a little more, a few steps, if he could just run faster.

Skidding to a halt, Link throws himself on a geyser of wind, to fly up to the platform above The Imprisoned. He runs frantically to catch up, out of breath, head spinning.

It's then that Groose fires a bomb, blasting The Imprisoned straight in its side. It stumbles just long enough for Link to scurry beside it, jumping down upon its scaly head. He strikes the seal once, twice, _just one more._

The Imprisoned promptly throws him off. Link screams as he plummets, helpless, toward the earth.

He crashes to the ground, face-first. Groose yells down into the pit, words indelible against the ringing in his ears. Link struggles to his feet, vision lurching sickly to one side, bile stinging his throat. The Imprisoned moves farther and farther away.

In moments, it will be upon the temple.

Everything hurts, joints burning, ribs aching, each breath tearing into his lungs. Desperately, Link stumbles back into a run, limping slightly, eyes wide with desperation. _He must catch up._

From above, Groose watches, unable to help, just as he has feared. Being helpless, useless, like a hatchling that has fallen from its nest. Sweat pours from his forehead. His limbs shake.

There are no more bombs.

_Why use bombs? Think, Groose, you big oaf!_

The Imprisoned approaches.

_I don't have to use bombs!_

"Link, get up here! I'll use the Groosenator to launch you onto its head!"

Without time to think, Link does so, stumbling along the tracks until he reaches Groose. His skin is pale with fright.

"I've never done this before, but it's all we've got. Climb on!"

Clenching his teeth, Link eases himself onto the catapult, The Imprisoned moving ever closer.

Link takes a deep breath.

His organs squash together as he's launched into the air, tumbling down onto the monster's back. The Imprisoned thrashes and roars, but Link continues to claw his way up, hand over hand, until he reaches its head –

He loses his grip. Link falls, watching the sky shrink farther and farther away, so slowly he might not even be falling at all –

Link catches onto a tuft of black fur sprouting from the monster's back. The world screeches back into place.

But The Imprisoned is close, too close, to the Temple. Link looks down toward Groose. They meet eyes.

Groose looks back helplessly.

The Imprisoned opens its great jaws.

_Do something._

Groose flings himself across the pit, limbs flailing, to catch onto the monster's scaly side. It thrashes violently, but he never lets go.

Link crawls up, _faster faster faster,_ blood rushing in his ears, the entire world narrowing down to one singular point: The sealing spike.

He draws the Master Sword, blade ringing, flashing in the sunlight.

Link strikes the spike once.

The Imprisoned thrashes, roaring so loudly it makes his entire body hurt.

Link strikes the spice twice.

The Imprisoned moves closer to the temple. From below, the old woman wails.

Link strikes the spike three times.

The Imprisoned stills.

Link leaps from its head, opening the Sailcloth to float, safely, back down to the ground.

As it has done so many times before, The Imprisoned bursts into glowing white fragments, twisting into the air for a few, tense moments.

They crash back together, the sealing spike forming anew. It imbeds itself deep into the earth.

"Seal it, Link! Seal it now!"

Magic rushes up into his arms as Link swings the Master Sword, drawing glowing runes into the air itself. The markings on the ground beneath his feet light up. The Imprisoned is sealed again.

The sky brightens, sunlight sparkling back down through the clouds. Twittering birds fly from their hiding places in the trees.

Link begins to laugh. He looks up toward the temple.

"Groose! Looks like you aren't such an oaf after all! We did it!"

The birds call down to him.

Link frowns, sheathing his blade. "Groose?"

He looks around, face paling. His gaze finds something bright red in the distance.

His heart lurches down into his belly.

Beyond him, at the bottom of the pit, Groose lies, completely still.

 

* * *

 

The dress presses against her like the deepest ocean would, pushing the life out of her with each movement.

She's afraid to sleep; she fears the day now as much as the night.

The day, she has discovered, has its share of shadows.

Zelda sits before her vanity mirror, observing herself, with the thin wax lines glaring dully in the sunlight. They line the top edge of the mirror in neat, tight rows.

She's running out of wax to count the days with.

Zelda peers hard into the mirror, yet her reflection remains the same, no matter how long she stares. Her cheeks are still pale, and though her hair remains a molten yellow, it has lost much of its shine. The blackness of the dress has given her skin a pale white glow, crimsoning her lips, brightening her eyes.

Her reflection is the same. But that is all.

And through the reflection she can see _him_ – standing behind her, still, silent, observing her with an expression she has seen only on the faces of hungry animals.

They gaze silently at one another.

_-his arms come around her, but they aren't his, not in shape or color; where her fingers meet his flesh there are scales, shining thin ebony light -_

Zelda lowers her eyes to hide the fear in them.

Ghirahim steps forward, into the sunlight, which glitters off his jewelry – and something dangling from his hand.

"You know, sweet, the more I look at you in that dress, the more you begin to look your part! I'm sure we both agree what a wise decision I made in giving it to you…however.."

He gazes at her through their joined reflections in the mirror, unblinking, smiling a wicked, devilish smile.

"Almost, but not nearly…not yet. There's something missing."

In his thin fingers Ghirahim lifts a shining black necklace, adorned with a small diamond-shaped jewel much like his own - and in the mirror Zelda sees her own face grow white.

Ghirahim leans in to press his lips to the shell of her ear, as one hand lifts the golden fall of her hair, to slowly bring the ebony chain around her throat -

_-and it winds about her neck, through her flaxen hair, its soft belly pressed flush against her throat, tail dipping low between her breasts – its words are drawn in tight a, seething hiss against her ear -_

"Sweet, Zelda, Goddess…"

Zelda's mouth falls open as the chain pulses a thin, shivering gold the moment it meets her flesh, the black diamond hanging from its chain blossoming violent crimson. The light washes the color from Ghirahim's already pale face, stark white and _yearning_ in the mirror.

He snickers warmly into her ear, breath washing down the sensitive path of her neck, where the jewel dangles low between her breasts.

– _the snake undulates, winding and winding and winding –_

"Consider this a token of appreciation. You've been so wonderfully obedient as of late, and what sort of Demon Lord would I be to not reward it?"

Her tongue cleaves to the roof of her mouth, lips drawn over her clenched teeth. Zelda swallows heavily, the whites of her eyes shining in the sunbeams.

His hands settle on her shoulders, gripping them with the strength to bruise. He smiles sweetly down at her.

"Well? I trust it's to your liking. It makes you look a little cheerier, I think."

Ghirahim trails a few ebony fingers up her nape, into her hair, strangely warm, as if he really _does_ have a pulse, however impossible it is.

"I'm waiting," he hisses, just like a snake.

Zelda's hands curl into fists atop the vanity, fingernails scraping against the rosewood.

"Thank you," she whispers after a time, weakly, not looking him in the eye.

Ghirahim grins wider, hands trailing down her arms, across the lacy fabric of her dress. Her shoulders tense, drawn up with a shudder.

His hands ghost back up again, to rest, firmly, at the base of her throat, slender fingers splayed across her collarbones.

_-the snake is no longer a snake, but hands, thin ebony hands which choke her pale, and he leans down to press a kiss to her neck, breathing hotbluefiresilverwhite against her skin –_

His breath burns across her nape as he leans down to kiss it.

When he leaves, Zelda tries to rip the necklace away, yet it cleaves to her flesh no matter how hard she pulls.


	15. Perception

  
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” – Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

 

On his desk are the familiar things: The half-forgotten carvings, pencils, old books. Dust.

The floorboards creak as Link steps inside his room, shutting the door behind him with a slow whine of wood. The bed is as he left it, hastily made, the corners un-tucked. A weak film of sunlight shines through the open window, flickers of dust gathering in the air.

The silence is so thick he could drown in it.

His equipment has been shed, resting safely by the door, yet a weight presses him down even still. It pulls him through the floorboards, past the earth, past the stars. He stares blankly at the wood carvings on his desk. Most are unfinished, rough shapes of birds or people.

_Groose is dead._

His throat feels bottlenecked, closed so tightly he can hardly breathe.

_Groose is dead._

Link flops onto his bed, bent over, elbows on his knees. His sandy blond head hangs down, blue eyes affixed to the floor.

It’s been three days since Groose’s death, since Link himself had to bury him in the Sealed Grounds, since he’s given the news. He has spent these three days as if in endless fog.  At night, he sees it over again, replaying, repeating, the image of Groose’s broken body, sprawled unnaturally, at the bottom of the pit.

In these three days, he has doubted his role as the Hero more than ever. Each victory he earns is met with bigger failure; he’s failed protecting Zelda, he’s failed finding her, and now he’s failed Groose…Groose lies in the ground away from his family, dead, dead, dead.

He looks at the Master Sword, propped by his door. Sunlight glimmers on its hilt, arching off its burnt-blue surface. His victories have amounted to nothing more than a mystical sword unfit for his hands.

Link sucks in a breath and rakes one hand through his hair. His palms are scarred, roughened with calluses which refuse to heal; each time he dresses, he finds new scars lacing their way up his flesh.

He is scarred with each new foe he encounters, his own blood soaking his tunic. In this he finds purpose; each new scar he earns is one more reason to find Zelda and bring her back, safe in the sky; safe with him.

Someone knocks on his door, but Link can’t even speak to answer it.

Gaepora shuffles inside, shutting the door with a mute thud behind him. In his hands he clutches a worn book. Grief folds around them like dark wings.

“Boy, you look awful.”

Gaepora steps closer to rest one hand on Link’s shoulder.  Link grins weakly up at him.

“I haven’t slept in a few days, Headmaster. I apologize for not speaking more with you.”

Gaepora shakes his head solemnly. “There’s no need for you to apologize. Can I join you for a moment?”

Link nods, straightening his back, shoulders hiking up.

Gaepora drags a chair beside the bed. He rests both hands on each knee, large, owl-like eyes lowered to the floor.

“The Academy staff and I have all decided to hold a funeral service for Groose in two days. We understand if you’re unable to attend; though Groose’s death has struck us all, we know your quest has more importance than his funeral service. You can still attend, if you like.”

Link bites his lower lip, turning his head toward the carvings on his desk. One, a graceful bird, is unfinished. He had planned to give it to Zelda after the Ceremony, all those weeks ago. He had planned so many things –

“No,” Link swallows. “I don’t think I’ll attend it, Headmaster. There are other things I have to do. I can’t waste time.”

The half-lie rests heavily against his tongue. Link swallows it back.

It’s a half-lie because he _doesn’t_ have time to waste.

It’s a half-lie because he has no idea what to do after this. He has no idea how to find Zelda. He lies awake at night wondering if she’s met some terrible end, what she could be doing, if she thinks of him as much as he thinks of her.

 _She’s not dead_. Link blinks away tears, turning back to Gaepora. He nods toward the book in his lap.

“Oh!” Gaepora fumbles. “This was the other thing I wished to discuss with you; I found it while sifting through my library. There was one passage I thought you’d be interested in.”

Gaepora flips open the old book, its pages crackling. His finger rests on one, barely-legible passage near the end of the book. Link has to squint to read it.

“It is said that the Goddess Hylia, patron of Time, was bestowed the duty of guarding The Golden Power. To aid her, Hylia brought into being two entities, which would each embody the pieces of Wisdom and Power. One, although young in appearance, possessed wisdom beyond mortal years. She would guard the Triforce of Wisdom. The other, her counterpart, guarded the Triforce of Power…”

The passage ends there. Gaepora closes the book.

Link licks his lips, brows knitting together. “But I thought only Hylia guarded the Triforce. How can you be sure this is true?”

Gaepora rubs his chin. “I have been thinking of that question for some time. I’ve come to this conclusion: Our world is dependent on _balance_. Relying on one being, even a Goddess, to guard such a powerful relic is _imbalanced_. Our world is held together by the number three. Three Pieces, three provinces, three guardian dragons…”

Link sets his jaw. “It’s not a coincidence, is it?”

Gaepora smiles beneath his mustache. “No. This is why, I believe, that this passage is true. But there’s more to it.”

He fishes out a page from within his robes and hands it to Link. Its words are blurred with age. Link reads it with difficulty.

“….her dark counterpart would come to betray Hylia and her cause, joining The Demon King’s many hordes as their leader. In return, The Demon King promised him possession of great power, should they come to defeat the Goddess. This counterpart would come to be known…”

Link feels the world swell up around him, the sunlight burning everything yellow-white. It feels like his very heart has stopped.  The paper trembles in his grip.

“I know who it was,” he says.

Gaepora leans in, bushy brows rising high on his forehead.

Link swallows, flushing all the way to his ears. His heart swings like a wayward pendulum. _Clang clang clang._

He stuffs the paper into his pouch, stumbling up from his bed. “I have to go.”

Gaepora blinks. “B-but, wait! Who--”

Link is out the door before he can finish. Gaepora dashes for him, out the Academy and across the pathways, but Link is too fast for him to catch up. Gaepora stands in the town square, out of breath and sweating. Link jumps off the edge of Skyloft, appearing once again on his Loftwing.

Gaepora watches as they disappear into the clouds.

 

* * *

 

There’s something in the air.

Impa inhales, all the way to the bottom of her lungs, gooseflesh rumbling up her dark arms. The hairs on her nape spring up. Her shoulders coil up into her neck, lean muscles cording. Her crimson eyes stare, never blinking, pupils exploding open so wide the sunlight seems to scald as it enters her gaze.

She sits in the Temple, legs tucked beneath her, sunlight glowing off her tawny skin.

She blinks. Her pupils contract, her shoulders drop, the gooseflesh disappears from her arms; the sunlight loses its burn.

That _something_ in the air remains. It slicks the skin between her eyelids, burning through her nostrils. It sticks to her hair like grease, slithering between the fibers of her clothing. Impa swallows heavily.

She knows why the air feels this way; his powers are returning.

It’s been nearly three months since Zelda’s capture. She’s amazed her magic has withheld this long, wishing only that it could hold longer. She has two weeks, at most.

 _Wishes and hopes, Sheikah._ Impa smiles sadly to herself.

She fingers the dagger strapped to her hip, rubbing her thumb over its sheath. She stares at it, expression blank, lips parted, eyes misting.

The pendulum of Time swings back and forth, past and present, back and forth. It swings back.

_She’s on her knees in the dirt with the sunset glittering red on her skin, so close to The Goddess that she could brush her fingers against her, feel the light, let it burn up and through her. She doesn’t. Instead, she pledges loyalty beyond even death. Above her, Hylia smiles._

The pendulum swings forward.

_She’s on her knees in the dirt with the moon glittering silver on her skin, her own blood splashing red down her front. She stares and stares and stares at the moonlight above her, stares until her vision blots with tears._

The pendulum stops.

Impa stands. Sunlight dazzles through the stained glass windows above her. Impa turns to her own shadow; it turns back. She doubts every spot of darkness now, finding something sinister in every innocuous shade; even her own.

She unsheathes her blade, watching it flash sunlight. Impa examines her reflection in it, the firm press of her sable lips, the flutter of her pale lashes. She is every fiber a Sheikah, a creature of secrets and shadows.

 _Because I am Sheikah,_ she thinks, _I must protect Her Grace. I must protect her, because I’ve sworn to._

Impa sheathes her dagger. There’s something else in the air, tangling closely to his dark magic. It’s _her_ , rather, her aura that perfumes the musky smell, lending it a note of citrus, just enough to be noticeable.

Impa smiles. She opens the gate of time, its great runes glowing cold blue, the entire room hushing into shadow around her. Ancient magic swirls like fog up every wall, into every crevice. The Gate of Time turns, gear after gear, waiting. She stands before it.

_I must protect her…_

Impa steps out of the past.

_I failed her the first time. I refuse to now._

The gate of time seals shut behind her, stone after stone. Its glow flickers, before diminishing entirely.

The pendulum of Time begins again.

 

* * *

 

“I want to ask you something, Fi.”

Link sits outside of the Sealed Grounds, legs dangling over the edge of the pit. At the bottom, the Seal rests, silent. A cool breeze rustles the trees around them, birds singing in their boughs. The air smells like thick moss and old, forgotten things.

Fi springs forth from the Master Sword. In the sunlight, her sapphire-slick skin glistens. She hovers beside him, feet barely touching the grass. She nods for him to continue.

Link retrieves the scrap of paper from within his pouch. Fi leans in towards him, a motion like curiosity.

“Headmaster Gaepora found this in his library. It says that Hylia created two beings to help her guard the Triforce. One of those beings was said to possess wisdom beyond her years. The other betrayed Hylia and joined The Demon King. Does any of this sound familiar?”

Fi’s stares, unblinking, at the paper in his hand. The wind grows silent.

“No, Master Link. I calculate a 0% recollection of this tale. According to my data, Hylia was the only being who guarded the Triforce – she made me to help guide you. That is my only purpose.”

Link re-reads the passage, brow lowering. “That may be your purpose _now,_ but what about before you came to me? Do you even remember being created?”

He looks to her; her face is blank as it has ever been. She tilts her head to one side, much like a child would.

“No, Master Link. I do not recall my creation. I simply became. I was not, and then I was.”

Link frowns. “I see. What _do_ you remember, then?”

Her sleeves billow, as if his questions are irritating her. “I remember coming to you the night that Zelda was taken to the Surface. That is the earliest data I have.”

Link lowers his head, staring at the paper in his hand, which flutters with the breeze. “Thank you, that’s all I wanted. I don’t require anything else right now.”

Fi disappears into the Master Sword once again.

 

* * *

 

Zelda sits before her vanity, alone.

She looks hard at her reflection, sunlight streaming in through a window beside her. She wears the black dress, its train flowing down the chair she sits in, shimmering, effervescent. Beside her burns a red candle.

“An illusion created by magic…”

Zelda squints at her reflection. Reaching out, she rests her fingertips against the mirror. When she speaks, her reflection speaks back.

“What did she mean?”

She lowers her hand, staring, still, at her face in the mirror.

“A place where nothing truly exists…an illusion…an illusion of what?”

She dips her head, gazing sullenly at her lap.

Beside her, the candle sputters.

Zelda lifts her head, the candlelight shining in her eyes. She bites her lips, reaching out toward the candle with shaking fingers.

“If this castle truly is an illusion…”

Her fingertips come close to the burning yellow flame – she jerks them back when it stings.

With tears swelling in her eyes, Zelda slams her fists onto the vanity, rattling it. “What did she mean!? If everything is an illusion, why can I feel pain!?”

She kicks away from her seat, stalking to the window to glare at the sky. The clouds move lazily by, muffled gray against the blue heavens. It reminds her of the skies around Skyloft; it’s the same shade of azure.

Zelda’s mouth falls open.

She whirls back to her vanity, dress curling around her legs. The candle burns, undisturbed.

“I felt pain because I _expected_ to!”

Her heart swings against her ribcage. She closes her eyes, approaching the candle, fingertips held out. Slowly, she brings them nearer to the flame.

“The candle is a cup of wine. The candle is a cup of wine. The candle is a cup…”

Pain crackles up her arm, and Zelda jerks away her hand, hissing sharply. She clutches her injured fingertips, shining red with blisters.

Screaming, she kicks the vanity chair across the floor, wood clattering against stone. It falls awkwardly onto its side, shadow lacing up the wall behind it. Zelda pants, arms held rigid against her sides.

She turns back to the candle, face scrunching with frustration. She closes her eyes and reaches toward it again.

“The candle…is a cup of wine.”

She remembers, years ago, when her father let her drink a cup of sweet-smelling wine after she was accepted into the Academy. It tasted like bitter cherries.

“The candle…is a cup of wine.”

She’s hated wine since then, refusing it at every gathering, the too-sweet smell making her stomach roil. Link spilled some on her dress, once, and she was angry at him for days.

“The candle…is a cup of wine.”

Her fingertips meet liquid.

Zelda gasps, eyes flashing open. Where once was a burning candle now rests a golden goblet, full to the brim with reddest wine. It smells like bitter cherries.

Zelda smiles.

 

* * *

 

The first thing she remembers is emerging from the Goddess Blade.

Fi rests inside the Master Sword, a place without walls or floors, only whiteness. She could wander for eternity and never reach its end.

She floats with her head held down, sleeves rippling.

The first thing she remembers is emerging from the Goddess Blade. There is nothing else; much like the void she rests in, beyond that recollection there is nothing, not even whiteness.

Something within her flickers, an ember of memory. It echoes endlessly inside her mind.

_“Oh, Fi. I only wish you could keep this form and all that comes with the pleasures of mortals…”_

She searches her databanks; there is no record of anyone saying those words. There are no texts, no songs, no tales, nothing but this ember of memory she can’t recall having.

Fi looks to the sky of her sightless world, white as anything, lifeless.

 _She_ is lifeless. She is not human. She does not have memory, only data. Data cannot lie or fabricate words she’s never heard.

Fi searches her data, every syllable, every inflection, until she reaches the very end… _“The one chosen by my creator. I have been waiting for you. You will play a role in a great destiny.”_

There is nothing before it, only _after_ , no matter how far back she searches.

The flicker grows. Like a stone thrown into a well, it trickles out, falling into and across itself.

_“You could regain your flesh, Fi. Can you not even feel the wind upon your cheek?”_

She knows that voice. It’s his; _was_ his. Ghirahim has never spoken those words to her before.

Fi looks to her billowing sleeves, a mockery of human arms; she has no flesh beneath her clothing, no heart, not even true eyes for which to see. She shares the human form, nothing more.

_Could I have shared more, at one time?_

Fi curls into herself, tucking her knees into her chest, wrapping her sleeves around her legs.

_No. There is a 0% chance that I could have been human. I am a weapon. I am a weapon. I am a weapon. I am…_

* * *

 

Grass stains her bare feet as she runs, dress and hair surging behind her.

She laughs, breathless, head thrown back to watch the sky above her. Sunlight shines down through the trees, warming her face. It’s the _real_ sky and _real_ sunlight, not figments of themselves. The world stretches endlessly around her, shining, fresh as summer rain.

She has escaped the castle with its blank white walls; she has escaped _him._ It matters not how, it only matters that she’s _free._

The wind bellows against her back. Zelda laughs wildly, sprinting as fast as she can through Faron Woods. Birds sing in the trees. Up ahead skulks the Sealed Temple, old and dour, with vines climbing its walls.

Zelda looks back, hair flying. There are only trees and shrubbery. No Demons, no monsters, no laughter. No pointed teeth or white hair or strangling hands. No blank white walls with endless hallways and windows that cannot break.

She’s free.


	16. Reunion

“Be careful that victories do not carry the seed of future defeat.” – Ralph W. Sockman.

* * *

 

It was inevitable, for her to slip from his grasp.

Ghirahim hovers weightlessly in the black void, where he watches her through a tear in its fabric.  Around him glimmer the last remnants of his castle, broken into glimmering fragments of useless magic.

With glinting eyes, Ghirahim watches her dart through the brush and briar of Faron Woods, ducking under branches and flitting through streams. She is a storm of motion, black and gold. With each step she takes away from him, something within him tugs, like a string hooked deep within his chest.

He knows to where and whom she runs; the answer glows upon her face like fairy dust, glittering in her eyes and laughter.

Ghirahim clenches his hands into fists. He wants to slice the smile off her face; watch her bleed into the green forest, _how dare she,_ watch her lips grow pale, _how dare she,_ open her tender belly with his fingers, _how dare she._

He knew she’d find her way through his tricks, to deny him with every step she takes away from him and to _that brat._  His eyes catch the glint of her necklace, its golden chain secured tightly around her throat, the red diamond swaying as she runs. The necklace he gave her, to keep her _his._

“And mine she will remain.”

He rips the tear even wider, willing it into a gaping, ragged window, bigger than himself. The void around him rumbles like thunderclouds, splashed brutal red.  She runs ever faster, glancing behind her every now and again, as if expecting him to be there.

Ghirahim crosses his arms, glowering darkly. She crests a hill, tumbling down its grassy side. Beyond it lays the Sealed Temple, its crumbling walls embraced by rising vines. The unseen string within his chest tugs ever harder, opening his veins with fire.

Although she’s escaped his castle, she hasn’t escaped _him._

Ghirahim smirks.

* * *

 

She feels the earth shivering beneath her feet, a cord striking green notes all the way up her body. The grass is slippery beneath her toes, everything smelling of sticky sap and sunlight. Zelda inhales of it until her head spins.

Though her heart feels as if it could take flight at any moment, she keeps running, until her feet hit the hard stone of the Sealed Grounds, its ancient walls rising up above her head. Even the stones feel alive, rumbling beneath the soles of her feet.

The doors groan as she heaves them open, musty air rushing against her face as she steps inside.

Zelda pants, sweat shining on her cheeks. The doors rumble closed behind her, shutting out the forest-sounds outside. The temple is much as she remembered; dusty, sprinkled with moss, ancient walls and more ancient smells. Sunlight still shines crookedly through fissures in the ceiling. Everything is the same – except a giant cogwheel in the center, etched in glowing epitaphs. The air around her vibrates with each turn it makes.

Zelda steps farther inside the empty temple. Sunlight fizzles out into blue-green sparkles as she nears the cogwheel.

“This must be the Gate of Time…” She stops before it, lips parted.

Behind her, the doors groan open, raking across the stone floor.  Zelda feels the bottom of her insides drop. She turns.

The sunlight crashes into her eyes, blurring her vision into veering lines without shape. She blinks, once, twice, three times –

“ _Zelda?_ ”

Link emerges from the sunlight, remnants of it shining amber into his hair, bringing color to his face. She doesn’t recognize his clothes or the sword strung to his back, and his face is darker than she remembers – but it’s _him._

For long moments she stands completely still.

Then, so quietly not even the wind carries it: “Link?”

They do not run to one another. Link walks, quite calmly and a little resigned, closer to her, close enough that she can smell the grass on his tunic. Something like grief fills the empty air between them.

He looks her up and down, mouth open in a small, awestruck frown. He reaches out to pinch a fold of her dress between his fingertips, before letting it fall back, silent.

His eyes linger too long on the necklace collared to her throat, and Link visibly shudders.

She takes his hand, fingers sliding easily between his, brushing the calluses and scars. They look at one another through the sunlight.

“Link, I don’t have time to explain everything,” she glances behind her too worriedly for his liking, “take out your sword.”

Link’s face loses its color. His lips stumble across his breath. “Take out my sword? Zelda – what happened? How did you get here? I was told you were gone. I was told I couldn’t rescue you. What’s happened to _him?_ ”

Zelda grips his forearms, resting her forehead against his collarbones. She takes in a long, shuddering breath. He smells like all the things she’s missed, real beneath her fingertips. Not an illusion. Not magicked together by demonic spells.  His breath stirs the hairs atop her head. Zelda trembles against him.

“Take out your sword _. Please._ ”

When she steps back to look at his face, she can see all the weeks settling with too much ease there. He’s been worn down to the very last vestiges of hope.

Zelda’s lips tremble. Her throat burns. _For my sake._

He steps back, and the grief rushes in anew. When he withdraws the blade it gleams stunning silver, ringing with familiar cords of magic. It tickles beneath the fabric of her dress, smells of water just touched by spring.

Zelda holds out her hand, palm-up. Link takes it, fingertips brushing the underside of her wrist. He kneels before her.

When she speaks, the words tumble across themselves, echoing across a dream she’s never had.

“Valiant hero, you have endured many hardships and journeyed far in your quest to reach this place. Along your travels you have gained wisdom, power, and courage, and for this I shall bless your sword with the goddess’s power. May it give you and your sword the strength to drive back the abomination that threatens this land!”

The triangles on the back of his hand glow golden. Link rises, blade held close to his face; upon its gleaming surface Zelda can see her own pale reflection. Her eyes follow it as Link raises the Master Sword above his head, high enough that when the light strikes it, the blade lengthens, its guard flaring out like the wings of a great bird. It glows with a thin, golden light.

He lowers the newly blessed sword, its light illuminating the blueness of his eyes. She doesn’t like how familiar the frown on his lips look. He sheathes the blade with ease.

They gaze at one another in the sunlight, silent.

Zelda places her hand on his wrist. She squeezes gently, tipping her head up to smile at him. He grins back, only enough to lift the corners of his mouth.

“Link,” she says, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

He chokes on a laugh. Link crushes her against him, arms wrapping so tightly around her she thinks she may never escape – but his embrace keeps the night out, not trapping her in it.

Zelda presses her mouth to the inside of his throat, his warmth trickling into the cracks of her bones. She stifles a sob against the collar of his tunic. His hand rubs gently across her back.

“I’m glad _you’re_ safe. I knew you’d find a way to escape.”

He draws back to gaze at her with an expression so intense with longing she aches from it. With his free hand, he grips her wrist within his own, fingers curling easily over the entirety of it, pressed tightly against her pulse.

“Come back with me to Skyloft. You’ll be safe there. I can defeat Ghirahim and Demise on my own.”

 _His_ name makes her flesh creep across her bones. Zelda swallows, looks away from his hopeful face.

“No. I can’t. I’m so sorry – but I can’t risk it. I won’t put you or anyone else in more danger for my sake.” Her hand strays to press against the jewel at her throat. “I can’t.”

Link grips her face with both hands, bringing their foreheads together, breathing fiercely against her face. “What will you do, then? Go back to _him?_ He’ll kill you! Please. Please come back with me. _Please._ ”

Tears spill slowly across her lashes. Her bottom lip trembles, slicked with her own tears. Zelda shakes her head.

Link’s face falls apart piece by piece; he presses both her hands to his face, cheeks hot with emotion. His voice is thick and tight when he speaks.

“ _You can’t stay here!_ Please, _Zelda_ , please. Come back with me. He can’t get to you in Skyloft. No one can. You’ll be safe. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

Zelda pulls away, black dress swirling around her bare feet. His eyes fix to the glimmering necklace, face paling. Link reaches out to touch it, lifting the red jewel beneath his fingers.

“You can’t go back…because he’ll find you again.” The words settle heavily against his own ears.

Zelda crosses her arms, shoulders tense. She squeezes her eyes closed. “Yes. He’ll find me no matter where I go…he’ll cut you and anyone else down to do so. I can’t risk that. I escaped because I knew I had to bless your sword. I had to tilt the scale in our favor, even if that meant seeing you…only to leave again.”

She turns away to face the Gate of Time. She gazes at it with a hard, contemplative expression.

“There is one thing I could do.”

Link steps to her side, biting his lower lip. “But the Gate of Time takes you to the past. If you go there, and Ghirahim finds you…”

Zelda nods grimly. “Yes, I know. He’s looking for it – this Gate. He said the other one was destroyed by you and Impa.”

She looks to him with a searching gaze. “Link…I could go into the past, and you could destroy this Gate. Ghirahim will never find me there.”

“No!” Link takes her hands in his, squeezing urgently. “You can’t. Once this Gate is destroyed, you’ll have no way back to the present. What will happen then? What if your father…what if I need…?” He stops, looks away.

“Groose is dead,” his voice cracks. “Groose is dead, and I don’t know if I can lose you, too. Not again. Please. Please stay.”

Zelda swallows heavily. She looks toward the grave nearby a mound of fresh soil, empty, quiet.

“Link…”

His grip on her hands tightens. “Stay with me. Go to Skyloft. You’ll be safe.”

She smiles sadly. “Link,” Zelda places a hand against his cheek, “You know I don’t want to. If I had any other choice, I wouldn’t. But I have to think about you – you, our people, and this land. It’s not about me anymore. I have to. I’m so sorry. I have to.”

He dips his head, bangs shadowing his face. “But I just found you again.”

Zelda chokes on a sob, brushing a few fingers against his face. “I know, Link.”

He looks to her –

-and the world explodes into brilliant shards of white and gold.

* * *

 

When she opens her eyes the white and gold glare is gone, replaced by the flashing of blades; black and silver.

Zelda sits up and hisses in pain. She grabs her aching side, shifting to her knees. Beyond her, just before the Gate of Time, Ghirahim and Link duel, crashing blades in the sunlight.

“Link!” She rises, watching helplessly.

Ghirahim cackles, lunging, swiping one blade over Link’s head, jabbing the other at his side. Link barely dodges, the ebony blade slicing through the side of his tunic and leaving a thin, bloody trail. He blocks Ghirahim’s next attack, the Master Sword vibrating with the force of the blow. Ghirahim begins to laugh, striking madly left and right.

“Didn’t expect me, did you, Skychild!? For all your magic, all your futile effort – you can’t keep her from _me_!”

Link snarls, doesn’t answer, stabbing forward with both hands, and Ghirahim vanishes.

Link pauses -

Ghirahim reappears behind Link, raising both swords to the sky, swinging them down with a lethal hiss.

Only to be blocked again, Link’s hands braced on the flat of his blade, throwing Ghirahim off and away, lunging forward.

He lands a single blow to Ghirahim’s thigh, cutting through the cloth and flesh below, black blood bubbling up from the wound. Ghirahim promptly backhands Link across the face.

Zelda cries out. Ghirahim pauses, _looks_ at her with a leer, face stark and terrible. A thousand needles flood her insides; she’s held still by his gaze, dark, insane –

He raises one hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together.

Link screams, lunges for him –

Zelda vanishes into shards of black and yellow diamonds.

Link and Ghirahim crash blades once more. Their bodies tremble with the force.  Face to face, Ghirahim smiles, coos softly against Link’s pressed lips.

“Don’t worry, boy. She’s safe where I sent her. Safer than she could ever be in your incapable hands.”

Link growls and shoves Ghirahim away; the ebony blade lashes down, ripping through the shoulder of his tunic, but Link sidesteps away before the blade can cut deeper.

They circle one another, swords held out, Link’s face falling into a blank glare. Ghirahim’s face splits into a smirk, pale lips pulling back from his teeth.

“Come now. You’ll get over her soon enough. It’s best to forget she ever existed, Skychild. Forget. It might make your death a little less painful.”

The Master Sword shakes in Link’s two-handed grip. The sunlight makes his eyes glow in their ferocity. He speaks with clenched teeth.

“I won’t let you have her, and I won’t die. Not to you, not to your Master. I’ll get her back.”

Ghirahim tosses his silvery hair. He actually shrugs, laughing. “Strong words from such a soft boy. Let’s see if you can match those words with your mettle.”

They lunge at one another once again.

* * *

 

She wakes to the sound of laughter.

Her head throbs, a hot, heady pain, like she’s awoken from too heavy a sleep. Sunlight screams through her eyelids, blinding her as she opens her eyes to the sky.

_The sky!_

Zelda throws herself upright. She sits in a patch of grass, soft beneath her fingertips. She looks down; the black dress is gone, replaced with the ceremonial outfit, its vivid colors so foreign now against her skin.

She looks around, and all the breath leaves her body.

She sits at the bank of the river flowing through Skyloft, its waters kissing her face with moisture. The homes of her friends are as she had left them, colored the spectrum of rainbows and more. Above her soar birds singing into the sun.

Zelda rises, knees quivering. She raises one hand against her mouth. “This can’t be..”

She steps away from the bank and toward the houses; they and the streets are completely empty.

“Hello?”

Zelda wanders past the homes, making her way up the paths and planks snaking through the town, toward the Knight Academy. She heaves open the ornate wood doors, stepping inside. It smells like dust and old books.

“Link? Pippit? Karane?”

She opens the doors to each of their rooms; each one is marked with the personality of its occupant, but entirely, overwhelmingly empty.

A great silence fills her heart. It reaches deep down into her marrow.

Zelda begins to run. She runs past her father’s office, past her own room, out of the Academy and into the sunlight, down the paths she knows better than her own heart. Every home she looks into is as empty as the last, with no mark of warmth or life within them.

Her chest feels tight. She sprints with all her strength toward the Goddess Statue – _Oh, Goddess, please, please let them be there –_ up the stairs which creak beneath her feet, past the archways weighed down with vines, into the center of the statue’s great shadow.

“Link? Father? Instructor Owlan? Anyone!”

The courtyard is empty. The trees trill in the wind, blowing through the grass. Above her, the statue of Hylia smiles serenely at nothing, the wind buffeting against its stone face.

Someone steps out from behind the statue’s base. Zelda’s mouth falls open.

Link steps out into the sunlight, smiling.

He’s dressed in casual Skyloftian attire, familiar earthen tones; he smells like freshly tilled soil. His skin is free of the scars of battle, back unadorned from any sacred blade or enchanted shield.

Zelda eyes him grimly. “Where is everyone?”

Link doesn’t answer. He nears her, smiling, unblinking. She steps back.

“Link, answer me. Where is everyone? How did you get away from Ghira—?”

Zelda chokes on the rest. Link lifts his hand, fingers uncurling from his fleshy palm; like an unraveling thread the skin from his fingertips _peels back,_ from his cuticles to his wrists, up his forearms, across his collarbones.

“ _Link_!”

All at once he falls into the ground like a sack that’s lost its filling, an empty pile of flesh-colored thread.  Zelda stares, heartbeat crackling against her ribs. She clasps her hands tightly against her chest. She approaches the pile, comes close enough to touch the tip of her boot to it –

A golden snake slithers across her foot. She shrieks, backing into a tree. More snakes crawl out from beneath the pile of fleshy string, hissing and snapping their fanged jaws. Zelda gags.

Behind her, the tree _shivers._ She leaps away from it, watching with awestruck horror as it shrivels into itself, becoming gnarled and rotten. The grass beneath it wilts, soil cracking into pieces. Everything around her begins to quake.

Zelda runs, past the crumbling archways, down the wooden stairwell which rots even as she steps upon it, crumbles into sawdust just as she reaches the other side. The wind picks up her hair and skirt, throwing dust and dead leaves into the air. The sky turns darkest black, boiling with storm clouds. They swirl around as if a great hand has stirred up sand from the bottom of a dark river.

The statue of Hylia cracks, the sound splitting her ears like lightning.  Zelda screams wordlessly as the statue falls into itself, chunk by chunk, before finally being reduced to debris.

All around her the homes of her loved ones crumble as the statue had, one by one, becoming nothing more than ash-colored dust on the barren ground. She runs through the streets, faster than she has ever ran before, past dying bushes and weathered paths. The birds no longer sing. The wind smells like smoke, though there’s no flame to light it.

Up ahead, the riverbank dries up, the water being sucked down beneath the grainy bottom. She stops at its edge, teeth bared in a silent sob, golden hair swirling about her face. She raises her head to the sky.

“You can’t scare me anymore!”

The sky rumbles in answer.

A roaring crack behind her makes her turn. The town courtyard has been rendered into jagged fragments, its tower tumbling down over the edge, into the swirling clouds below. Something dark begins to crawl up from the courtyard’s demolished center.

Zelda falls to her knees. A single black root creeps up from the crack, then another, and another, until an entire tree twists up from the ground, groaning and snapping, until its entirety is revealed; a great, ancient tree full of hideous twists and knotholes, its long, tangled branches reaching far into the sky.

Dangling from its dark branches are shining red apples, glinting in the sinister light.

Zelda bites her lips until they bleed. She approaches the tree with legs that shake beneath her, fingers outstretched. She touches its roughened bark. Something pricks her arm – she looks down and screams.

Her colorful skirt melts away into the earth, until she’s naked and shivering in the wind, but not for long; the shadows cling to her flesh, twisting together until they form the horrible black dress.

 “ _No!”_ She turns around and around, clawing at herself. She tears at it with her fingernails, kicking, screaming, before finally tripping on its long train and falling harshly to the ground.

She lies in the barren dirt, the roots of the black tree all around her. The wind seems to laugh.

“You can’t scare me. These illusions – your tricks, your magicks, your _power._ This isn’t real. I know it isn’t. _This isn’t real.”_

Zelda sits up, curling into a ball.

“You can’t scare me. This isn’t real. I’ll escape again.”

She begins to sob, horrible, wracking sounds which rattle in her chest. Tears and snot slick her face.

“ _This isn’t real_.”


End file.
